I’m drifting in and out of a mission to punch some tickets for some event that I can’t quite define but which is really attractive.
Generally, I slip back into unconsciousness and when the alarm goes off at 7 am, the 5 o’clock narrative evaporates.
This time its Noah pushing the door open.
“Dad, my stomach really hurts, all around and up here.”
I peer at him through the confusion of punching tickets. I’m erect and feeling oddly abandoned.
“What time is it?”
“5 o’clock and 35 minutes after.”
Ten minutes have gone by and it feels like I died, was resurrected and am somehow grasping for memories of past lives.
“Come in, I’ll massage your belly.”
He slides in, under my sheets. New Faux-silk sheets that slide well, good for all kinds of games. My preferred game is… !
Better forget that one. There’s an 8 year old in my bed.
His favourite game is sliding his cold feet into me. Women and kids have so much in common.
“Oooohhhh…cold feet.” It’s my obligatory complaint. He giggles, evil mastermind style. Then he starts beating on his stomach like King Kong hitting his chest.
“Oh yeah, dad.”
I close my eyes. Now what was that show I was punching tickets for? It was eerily pleasant.
Before I can find the way back I’m rerouted by a sudden stench of decomposition.
“Dad, I feel better now.”
“Did you just fart up a storm?”
“Hehehe… imagine dad, that storm was inside me.”
Another hurricane raises the sheets and spreads the smell of death.
“Geez, Noah… go to the bathroom.”
“Hehehehehehehehe….”. He wafts the sheets to amplify his delight and my misery.
“Go….you crazy fartman!” I push him out of bed.
He jets himself to the bathroom on a stream of retro-propulsion and noxious giggles.
I can hear him grunting and plopping on the toilet.
I look at the clock.
5h45…another ten minutes that felt like a lifetime and a half.
I close my eyes. What was that show? Why did it feel so nice? I slip back into that odd seduction.
“Dad? Dad? Daddy, daddy, oooooohhhh daddy?”