The Morning After

The next morning, after having slept the sleep of the dead, I am awakened, thankfully not by a bat, but by a text from Scott.

"Is there coffee?"

I tiptoe from bed hoping not to disturb Kate. She was such a good sport the night before. The least I can do is let her sleep in later than she gets to at home.  I creep into the bathroom and brush my teeth. I wash and moisturize my face and make it moderately presentable. I tame the hair with an industrial strength hair tie and some finishing creme, lest I look like Diana Ross from her Eaten Alive photo shoot. 

Trinket is hiding under the bed looking like she is still on high alert. This troubles me momentarily, but then I have to take into account that her brain is the size of a chickpea and she can't possibly understand that the beast is dead and rotting in Charlotte's garage trash can which is sealed with a lid in case of any miraculous resurrections from the dead.

I tiptoe downstairs and make coffee. I return to the bedroom to make myself look accidentally fabulous.  Like I just rolled out of bed and look fresh as a daisy and neat as a pin and smell wonderful to boot.  I am sure Scott knows I am human and get morning breath and pillow creases on my face and have bags under my eyes and bed head, I just don't need to remind him that he'll be waking up next to them every morning for the rest of his life.

I text him to park behind me in the lower drive (Charlotte and Jack have two). The one at the top of the steep drive is occupied by Kate's car...only he won't know that until he's gunned his car up the hill and makes the sharp turn.  I go down to my car and back it closer to the garage door to give him room. 

And just walking by the garage door knowing that the bat is in there gives me the willies.  What if it was just playing dead like it had when Trinket had snared it in mid air?  What if, in its little pea brain, it was thinking, "Jesus, these two morons in the goggles are going to keep pelting me with these stingy little things unless I act fast and drop to the ground like they've killed me.  And what is with the green light?  And who's yelling? Oh hell, let me just pretend to drop dead and get it over with. I'll never find an open door on my own if that cat has anything to say about it. May as well let the two idiots have their victory dance and have them carry me out of here in a tea towel."

I go upstairs and wait for the car to pull up, and drink half the pot of coffee in the meantime.

Scott and the kids arrive. I tell them my tale of woe. Kate elects to stay in bed while we go out for breakfast.  Later she joins us for a stroll or two around the neighborhood, falling as in love with it as I have.
And afternoon spent at the gun shop, the Harley dealership, and roaming the hamlet later, we are enjoying dinner and settling in for the night.

The next day Scott will take the kids to buy their new Yorkie puppy and I will pile into the car with Trinket and head for home.  Later we'll meet at Scott's house at the shore and a more traditional Labor Day Weekend. To date, there has been nothing traditional about it.