“You mean you haven’t met Snarla yet?” her mother asked me, incredulous.
“I don’t believe that Snarla exists,” I said. Her mother gave me a look that said, just wait. My cockiness cleverly hid my fear.
It seems that Charla doesn’t do mornings well. Great, I thought, neither do I. Especially on work mornings. However because I liked being employed, I get up. When I get up before her, I can make coffee, or go to Starbucks, or quietly and gentlemanly let her sleep some more. Or I can sing.
Unfortunately for me and for Charla, I cannot sing. Not that such a troubling fact prevented me from singing to her in the morning. Her family did not understand how I survived singing her the song “Good Morning” from the 1952 classic movie “Singing in the Rain”. Look it up. It was just epic.
Mornings are other things, though. Like the first time I open my eyes in the morning and I see her green eyes smiling back at me. Wrapped in the comforting warmth of the blankets, a gentle white light fills the room as she stretches, rolls over and goes back to sleep. Then she turns again and looks at me and I get lost again in those eyes. This time, they crinkle into a smile.
“Coffee?” I ask. She nods. Our hands and fingers find each other and hold tight. It is still warm under the covers. I want every one of my mornings to be like this.top