“I owe it all to my mother and her early training,” Parks says.
Although David Warner Parks, of Someplace, America, had dragged himself out of bed six days in a row, early reports claimed today’s Rise and Shine looked doubtful. The covers were warm, the pillow fluffed just so, and the phone beside his bed displayed no urgent messages.
Taxes could wait another day to be figured.
The cat had food and water. He’d checked last night at eleven.
Was today trash truck day? Maybe Vickie would put the barrel out on her way to work. She wouldn’t leave until way past first light. Parks pulled the covers up over his ears. If he failed to shut the garage door behind her, let the neighbors take the oil-changing ramps.
Coffee. That first sip. Black and strong. But first to fill the reservoir and measure the grind. The machine would wait.
He deserved to sleep in.
A twinge from his bladder.
No. He’d already gone in the night. Twice. False alarm. Had to be.
His bladder tapped.
Parks crossed his legs.
Then he rolled out, set one foot on the rug at the side of the bed, and felt for a slipper with the other foot.
The bladder jabbed him. “Forget the slipper, man.”
Parks pushed off from the bed and shuffled into the bathroom.
My response to the prompt in our library writers group.