Second Wind

She read everything of any interest to her making sure to tackle the boring stuff first. Newspapers, magazines, blogs, blog of blogs, but she remained unfazed. She masturbated twice, to nothing in particular. There was only black tea in the house and drinking that would run counter to her goal. She even considered running out to the 24 hour store a block away to get some camomile tea, but thought the trip out in the cold would undo any progress toward sleep.

Her alarm clock would ring in four hours. In five hours she had to be at her desk. If she was still awake two hours from now she wouldn't bother trying anymore and that got her thinking about breakfast. At that point food would be necessary since she'd need the energy and food coma doesn't work in the morning so the possibility wasn't too remote. It wasn't clear where she picked up that life lesson but she didn't push locating where because any additional thought would keep her that extra minute awake.

She thought about the unpaid bills and her lagging to-do's and her mind started to numb. recognizing this, she pushed herself to think along that direction where being mentally awake over things of this nature would force her to sit up and take charge, charting a course where things got done. Things that should have already been done. Her head grew heavy and she felt her neck and shoulders release their hold. She wondered how that was when she wasn't trying otherwise.

Satisfied Cravings

He was sure about the coffee. Definitely wanted the coffee because it came with unlimited refills. In fact, ordering one cup got you a tall thermos full of it.

The menu was way too big for what the place offered. Every dish had eggs, pancakes or waffles, breakfast meat and some kind of potato. For ten pages, it was really four distinct "dishes" and all the permutations of that egg, meat, potato combo.

So when the glob of eggs with the bieged hash browns flanked by two cigarillo-slim sausages came out, he barely noticed. But the short stack, on a separate plate, filling out the edges of the dish it sat on, two neat cakes sitting pat with two tight scoops of already melting butter atop, this was desert.

Maple syrup - traditional - as they list it on the dispenser. He wouldn't fuck with that boysenberry mess. One cut from the dulled blade and an eager stab from his fork pushed a moistened portion of that hotcake into where it always belonged since that craving hit the night before - or earlier this morning, rather. Coffee next, then more pancake. Then the eggs.