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Morning came. He awoke. The bag of aching meat he had become was stiff. With no slight effort he pulled himself to an upright sitting position. He paused on the edge of the bed. How long he would rest there didn’t matter it was just time. For a moment he let his eyes adjust.  Enough light was filtering into the room to move about it.  As things stood despite a desire to get moving he had to remain seated. Until his mind cleared a bit he would not be able to find his glasses.  

Memory not failed eyesight would locate his specs.  Let the seconds tick by until memory comes. Are then on the headboard or on the chair. Myopia is a terrible thing, it can lead to broken toes. Done that before.  

As his mind slowly cleared, groggily kicked into process he knew he urgently had to pee.  When he was six years old he would have done a crazy hold the pee in dance bouncing to the john.  Six years of age was long ago. He doubted any real memories of that time existed within his consciousness. His mind was producing cogent simply structured thoughts now, ‘Oh let the eyes clear. Let me find my glasses and head to the toilet. Don’t want to pee on my toes’.  

He had slept soundly and that is why his bladder was screaming.  No two a.m. trips by feel to the head last night.  Sad thing though, he knew he was old cause he didn’t have the morning “I gotta go so bad” hard on.  Old was now measured by the fallen barometer of his dick. Sleep now was induced and regulated by Xanax. 

Placing his glasses on and shuffling to the bathroom he knew the day was different.  To an observer nothing special stood out.  The world within this room was in place.  The body next to him when he had gone to sleep was still there as he rose.  Softly breathing the relaxed form moved in the rhythms of sweet and gentle rest.  The light coming through the window was the warm yellow light that spring as it comes to the north provides at that hour. Her sleeping form conveyed peace. 

On the dresser his old bible sat covered with the tiniest little bit of dust.  Last week he had found himself rereading that passage about not worrying about tomorrow.  The Lord gilds the lily; the birds of the air survive.  After that reading he had put it down and had not revisited the Holy Book.  

When trouble comes everyone has a specific place they run for support.  His was there in the Gospels of the New International Version of the Bible. Living with acceptance that life would be providently provided for he tried to move on.  As sure as a dog won’t give up a meaty chew toy he worked over that thought again and again.  He had been mulling that concept up ever since he had turned those onion skinned pages. Life it seems was pressing in.

Another week day, another work day, the rituals were beckoning.  His shoes sat in his closet shinning.  His shirts were clean and pressed. Silent white oxford button down shirts hung there above his shoes. Old ties hung in a row on a tie rack.  He stood and looked at them and only one thing crossed his mind, revulsion.  Yesterday it was boredom.  Today he knew it was revulsion he felt; it was if he had a flu coming on.  A mild perspiration appeared on his brow.  A knot came to his stomach, his hands clenched.

Glasses found he walked quietly but quickly to the other side of the room.  Grabbing a patterned t-shirt, tightly whities and blue jeans he made his way to the shower.  Oh he had to pee. It almost hurt.  How long can you clench without blowing out some ureters? 

The hall was carpeted so the only being who would know he was moving about would be the cat.  As he got to the door of the shower the cat lifted up on his hind haunches and raised his head.  A more blatant cry for a head scratch and some attention there is not. He bent down and stroked the top of the cat’s head.  The cat reached up and grabbed his hands with his front two paws.  There was going to be a minute or two of petting at the very minimum. He was probably going to pee himself.  Cat might get caught in the crossfire.

Tiring of the ritual the cat raised a furry black tail and walked from the bathroom.  I’m and old man living in an old house, he thought.  He turned on the faucet in the tub and let the water run it would be 30 seconds to warm and then he would jump in.  At 60 seconds it would be getting pretty damn hot and he would turn the handle to the spot where he was comforted by the heat but not scalded.  Before that 30 seconds passed he voided with the power of a firehouse.

For men the shower is sacred.  It erases aches in the shoulders, aches in the back and aches just about anywhere.  It cleanses the pores and hair.  It carries away the residue that results when those two women you saw yesterday evening at the bus stop are suddenly a whole lot prettier and a whole lot more naked and are furiously engaged in lesbian sex in your mind. It is where you organize your lists of to dos for the day.  It is where you pray to whoever is listening out there among the stars that this might be a better day. And then you twist the handle and the shower is done and you are reaching out for a towel.