Three Coffees, Two Stories, No Sleep

Three coffee cups tonight.

All warm. All half-drunk.

One on the desk, one on the windowsill, one beside the bed.

I don’t know which is mine anymore.

Or who I poured for.

But I know I’ve been here -with someone writing. Wanting. Wandering.

Two stories.

Two obsessions.

One me - sleep-deprived, wide-eyed, caught between worlds and characters who refuse to share.

I promised equal time.

One night each.

But now it’s past 3am and one of them is whimpering in the dark.

And the other?

Still waiting for me to come back.

Welcome to Late Night Musings with Rogues & Scoundrels

Two loves.

Two stories.

One me.

I want to spend an equal amount of time in both houses.

I love it.

But do they love me?

My incessant procrastination to leave, the tireless pleas to stay.

Just a bit longer. Stay the night.

I can’t, I promised I’d get back tonight.

The pout.

But you promised!

I did…

I haven’t finished yet.

Yet they demand it.

To tend to both of their needs.

Not out of duty, but desire.

And I remain mute, powerless to their requests.

Malleable, bending to their wild ways.

From one house to the other.

Caught up in the passion -

The word-lust of it all.

Juggling whispers, teasing syllables, and caressing longing hums between each breath, each metaphor.

Was it supposed to be this hard?

The balancing act?

I know they both know my obsession - my need to tend to the other.

And they use it to their advantage.

Twisting my mind.

Turning the hour hand.

The story flows.

The character arcs are clear.

But it’s 3:48am, and the Sandman has caught me red-handed.

With a nod to the door, I take to leave -

Yet, she will not have it.

A small whimper in the dark, a silhouette of desire…

And I’ve submitted again.

She wants to obliterate all thoughts of the other entirely.

Or does she?

Maybe it’s not the other story she’s obsessed with -

But the version of herself she becomes when she imagines my commitment to finishing what I started.

You see, they both don’t want to hear about the other.

So I hide my thoughts.

Hide them from one story to the next.

Even if I am seduced to stay longer over this way tonight.

Yet, the wristwatch -

I would say it occurs to me,

but rather, it smashes into my worldview like the fist of a jilted lover.

Did I leave it on this nightstand… or the other?

I try to keep the ideas organised in a particular way.

For later.

When I find myself in a different room -

Quick access. Fast recall.

Each story continues.

Yet the wristwatch beckons me.

Confuses me.

I must remember to make notes.

Or I will come undone.

The impetus to leave finally arrives,

as I take my leave… back to her.

The other.

Later, I become aware of warmth.

The obtrusive beams paint my eyelids an internal orange.

With the flailing arms of a drunkard, I squint at the now-familiar windowpanes of my other story.

This nightstand too… remains bare.

Empty.

No wristwatch.

The epiphany lands hard.

It’s not at either of their houses.

Because there is another.

Another other.

And this time,

his name is Gary.

Or at least I think it is.