At 4:15 AM, Los Angeles is a sleeping giant under my window, snoring traffic noise. Helicopters occasinally tiptoe overhead, sending her fleas skittering.
I'm awake and headed for the shower, last-minute worries distracting me from really applying myself to the job of shampooing and scrubbing and rinsing. There's so much to keep track of; so many details, and each one is integral to the overall function of the machine.
I always find it wickedly hard to leave this bed, with your smell in the sheets and your long legs a toe's reach away. It's even harder when I know what kind of day it's going to be. So when I emerge from my half-assed primping and find you dressed and waiting to help me to my car, it's another moment to think about how lucky I am that you're here in the world - a chance built of unthinkable statistical insignificance - and that you found me, which is even more unlikely.