Saturday morning.

 The weekend. Finally. Lately, the days mesh together with only Saturday and Sunday illuminating. Start off fresh. No responsibilities. No meetings. No emails. No finite plan. Just two days to do, well, anything. Wake up early and cook breakfast. No rush. Simply enjoy it. A house to myself. Space. Funny how I still crave an empty house in the middle of nowhere. Not that I don’t enjoy the company of Suzanne, just sometimes it’s nice to be alone. My thoughts on Saturday morning. The day. Alarm set for 8. Make a real breakfast. Moscow for biking. Coffee with Michele. Fishing with the Barnes. A good day. A relaxing day. Cherish these moments, it’s going to be a long week. “Beep.” I wake up. A deep breath. Stretch. Alarm off. I’m up. Home. I think of home. I often think of home at this time of day. “This feels like a New England Coffee type of morning,” I mutter to myself. Self-dialoguing becomes socially acceptable when not around other people. These mornings remind me of college. The cliff house. A morning ritual of sorts for Lynne and I -- cinnamon hazelnut coffee with a splash of vanilla soy milk. Divine. The perfect combination. This was one of those mornings. I miss those mornings. I need this morning. Food. Eggs -- scrambled. I hear the screams. Kids tackling chickens. I still can’t get over the chicken scramble at the fair. I shake it off. Fry the eggs. Eject the toast. Into my plate. Sip the coffee. “Clank.” The fork meets the ceramic plate like a mallet hitting a gong. I finish eating. Satisfied. Excited. No responsibilities. A day to relax. I hear silence. Nothing but the strange whistle as cars travel past. I descend to my room. I pack for the day. Noises. Feet. My mind races. Ears perk. “What the… it must be the cats. Yes, it’s the cats… they’re always fighting… no. It can’t be. That’s a person. Who the hell is that? Shit… this would happen… there’s no way that’s Suzanne. She left to Walla Walla only a few hours ago.” I pause. Frozen. My feet snug in my shoes. Spandex tight around my thighs. Ready to run. Ready to attack. I reach for the pocketknife. The cool metal causes my warm body to shiver as I clip it on my shorts. “Don’t mess with a masshole,” I mouth in the mirror. I’m prepared. I step out the door and tip toe down the hall. I continue to hear the rustling of bags, feet scurrying across the carpet above me. I peer out the window. No use. Can’t see the driveway. I quietly ascend up the stairs. I make my way around the corner, peering up. Nothing. I hear, but see nothing. The last step. I see the kitchen. I laugh. “Oh hey, Suzanne. You’re back early.” Relief? Maybe. Relaxed? Definitely not. I leave. No responsibilities. Enjoy the day. It’s going to be a long week.