The July sun wakes me earlier than other Saturday mornings. Its light slips in from behind the shade and casts a yellow glow down the far brick wall and across the wide-planked floor. Warm and inviting against the cool, air-conditioned room. I cozy back down into the comforter and decide for kindness against plunging my cold toes under his warm calves. My eyelashes meet the tops of my cheeks, but the sun gently wakes them again. It calls softly, a morning lullaby, "Wake now, my love..."
The old warehouse floor creaks under my iced toes and the bedroom door squeaks behind me as I pull it closed. The sunlight waterfalls through the floor-to-ceiling loft windows and dust particles dance in the beams. I remind myself to dust again as I make my way to the coffee pot. "Someday," I promise myself, "I'll remember to program this thing for Saturday mornings." But the truth is, I don't mind standing and waiting for the first morning drops. My toes and nose un-thawing in golden light.
I lean against the industrial counter as I wait and survey the vast open space. Most of it still empty, I begin to purchase and move furniture around in my head. Swoop up the stacks of books from the dinner table, the chair in the corner, under the end table, and organize them on bookshelves so tall they need the attached ladder with wheels. Move last semester's grade book and this summer's research off of the coffee table and back into the office. I start thinking about the outline I still want to complete by Tuesday. "Stop." Thankfully, it's an almost instant, silent command. "If you're going to daydream, at least do it correctly." I reach for a coffee mug and the coffee pot hisses and steams.
Too hot to wrap my hands around and too full to promise not to spill, I take the first sip and walk the rest through the old door, down the building hallway, and up the narrow stairs to the roof. July mornings in Brooklyn hold the heat and humidity but can't compare to summer mornings in DC. A small breeze and the early hour makes the sun's rays bearable. And glorious. And blinding. I wish I had remembered to grab sunglasses on my way out the door, but I reason that I would be squinting towards the Manhattan skyline anyway. Not quite a million dollar view, but still priceless on sunny Saturday mornings and clear Thursday nights.
Knowing the roof is hardly ever used, I had trekked a couple of fold-up camping chairs up the stairs for mornings just like these. I even cut slits in the drink-holders so I could use them as coffee mug holders. The city below apparently rose hours before I, but still sounds like early morning - a car door slam, a delivery truck turning the corner, two dogs barking a few blocks down. Another morning lullaby. I sip my coffee, close my eyes, and lose time in the sun's heat.
I'm lost in my thoughts somewhere between backpacking Nepal and gondola floating in Venice, when I feel a shadow move over my face. He smiles down, coffee in one hand, slides into the chair next to me, and slips his other hand behind my head, for just a moment. "What are you thinking?" he asks. And I smile, because I have so much to share.
[ Part I ]