bellwether

After four hours sleep, the alarm sounded before the coffee maker switched on and it was time to get dressed and prep the bicycle for the 80-mile ride from Pasadena to Long Beach and back.

The sleep deprivation and the accompanying delirium were the results of staying up at a rock and roll nightclub until it closed, and charming some cute, lithesome lipstick lesbian and a pair of still-in-school make-up artists. The lesbian was ignoring her equally cute girlfriend, and as we talked about the field of journalism, I had to explain to her what the word "bellwether" means.

Staring at the ceiling, smelling the espresso grind brew, and attempting to focus my eyes, I closed them long enough to visualize touching your leg, kissing you on your sleepy cheek and whispering to you that I was leaving for a bike ride and would be back in the afternoon. In this vision, you giggled and pulled the covers up over your neck.

I opened my eyes again. The room was cold and the windows were socked in with fog. It was going to be a long, chilly bike ride. The warmest things in the room were the smell of coffee doing an interpretative dance up around the ceiling and the ghost of a memory that never happened.