It’s Friday night around 9 p.m., and my feet are killing me after being out with friends all day long. The hangout was amazing: we beat the same dead horse for the 10th time, did karaoke, and ended with ridiculous hypothetical questions. Now I’m walking home in slightly chilly — around-70-degree — weather, the wind gently pushing my hair out of my face.
My headphones are playing Young Folks as I pull my keys out of my pocket, all my keychains jingling, and open the door to my shared space; and no one’s there.
I head to the bathroom, ready to be squeaky clean and makeup-free before jumping into bed, where the sheets were freshly washed earlier today, and my chai candle is already mixing with the scent of clean laundry.
It isn’t my hair wash day, so there’s no need to spend an hour on my curls tonight. My shower still lasts a good thirty minutes, with a body scrub, body wash, and in-shower lotion. The water is neither too cool nor too hot, and the tension in my shoulders, from my lifelong need for an oversized purse, slowly lets go.Â
The headache I’ve been dragging around all week, thanks to too much caffeine and too much thinking, goes with the tension, and by the time I turn the water off, I feel lighter than I have in days.
My robe is fluffy, and I feel like I could pass out on the bathroom floor right then and there. My PJs are already laid out on the bed: a worn-in Paul Frank t-shirt and shorts I’d pick over anything new. I slip into them and feel the day settle on my skin.
I turn off the big light, leave on my salt lamp, and shuffle down the hall to make a cup of chamomile tea, my favorite bedtime drink. Outside the window, a light rain has started, tapping softly against the glass. I carry my mug back carefully, as if it’s the most important thing I’ll do all night, and at this point, it might be.
Then comes the best part: the bed. I sink in, prop up my pillows, set the tea on the nightstand, and pull my plaid blanket up to my chin. My phone starts to buzz, and it’s my group chat being active. They’re already replaying tonight’s disasters, with someone else spamming reels, and I feel a smile on my face.
I put the phone face down and open my laptop to my favorite show, Supernatural. It’s an episode I’ve seen so many times I could recite it. The Impala rumbles down some empty road, the brothers bicker, something creepy lurks in an abandoned house, and I’m wrapped in my blanket, completely safe from every monster. I sip my tea, mutter along with the dialogue, call out the plot twist a full minute before it happens, and click next.
But by the next episode, my eyelids are getting heavy. Young Folks is still stuck in my head, and so I hum a few bars, off-key as usual, just to myself. The candle flickers on the shelf, the rain keeps up its soft rhythm, my feet finally stop aching, and my shoulders stay right where they belong. The headache is gone, and nothing is waiting on me until tomorrow.
I close the laptop and turn off the salt lamp. Before I can wrap my head around it, I’m already asleep before it hits midnight.
But sadly, this is a dream night in that hasn’t happened yet, despite my efforts.
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