I should get up. Shower before she’s awake. Get breakfast and load the car.
“Wait, wait, wait, wait,” she whimpers.
I freeze. “Daphne?”
“Don’t drown the butterfly,” she cries.
“Daph—” I put a hand to her shoulder. “Hey. Wake up. You’re having?—”
“Snniiiiiccckkkkkeerrrrdoooooooodle,” she yells.
Then she snorts once.
Her eyes fly open.
She stares at me, pupils dilated and unfocused, and then she does the most Daphne thing ever, and she screams, flings an arm straight up in the air, and tumbles off the side of the bed.
Shethuds.
I scramble across the bed. “Daph?”
“Fucking fuckity fuck-bucketfuck,” she pants. “I thought I was in Candelabra. Where is Candelabra? It’s not even real, is it? Why do I name places in my dreams?”
She’s irresistible, and I need to stop smiling, but I can’t quite get there. “You okay?”
She rubs her head, winces, and flops onto her back, then grabs her neck. “Peachy. Why does the carpet smell like dog grease?”
“What’s dog grease?”
She blinks at me again. “Don’t talk to me until I’ve had three cups of coffee.”
“Will dog grease make sense then?”
“Stupid dreams,” she mutters. “I haven’t slept that hard in weeks. Is it time to go?”
“It’s barely after seven.”
“I slept all day?”
“In the morning.”
“I’m on vacation and I was finally sleeping and now I’m awake before ten?”
“Maybe next time, don’t put the pillow wall on your side of a double bed.”
She squeezes her eyes shut and flips me off with both hands.
Shouldn’t make me happy, but it does.
I like her unfiltered. Unguarded.
Unafraid to flip me off.
Unafraid to be honestly, completely, fearlessly herself.
“Stop smiling,” she orders without opening her eyes.
“What kind of coffee do you like? I haven’t asked you that yet.”
