"There is a flash of red hair like fire, or cinnamon, and it shakes you out of the world you were completely lost in just moments before.
You are writing, well, you were writing.
It is Sunday morning, the children are asleep, and so this is when it must be done.
It is peaceful, the sunlight forcing its way through the cracks in the blinds, the dust jumping from sunbeam to sunbeam, the occasional car on the streets below, or the flush of a toilet somewhere in the building, the only sounds permeating the otherwise quiet room.
Still, it has to end, it always does. Someone has to wake-up. Lately it has been the little one, the one who sleeps in long T-shirts and tiny briefs, the Angry Birds displayed across his behind.
He is like a donut, his caramel skin so soft to the touch, and you want to consume him, always, and endlessly.
He drifts out into the living room like a small wave, and as he arrives one part of the day ends, and another begins.
Today is different though."
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