I lay in bed in the middle of the night with a headache. I tried to get to sleep to relieve it but I know better. Finally I got up, threw some clothes into the dryer from the washer, then took a couple of tylenol migraine tablets. It was about 4:20. The coffee pot indicator light glowed green, waiting for its time. Not yet. There was a light under Paul's door. Is he reading? Getting ready for his quick trip down south?

I went back to bed. Stretch found me again, watched me for a bit, then hunted out his spot, the little cave formed by my body resting on its side, my left arm out and up against the pillow. He kneaded for a while, then settled into the corner formed by my arm and my body, his head resting lightly against my cheek, his body pressed firmly, softly, and heavily against mine. There is such a wonder in this position, to me. How it fits him, how it fits me.

It was no good, though. Although I felt some lessening of the headache after many minutes, I didn't feel I would be going back to sleep. I got up. Now it's 5:30. Still not time for the coffee pot to spring into action. I don't press the button, make it get going now. I like to wait until it begins on its own. For some reason I still delight in the automation. And now Stretch has found a place in my lap, is curled there, jealous of the computer I think.