Well, the Portuguese have returned.
Woken by the 4am return of my roommates, I thought- as one’s night ends, another’s day begins. I must think in terms of cliche’s while my brain warms up. Oh well. In 2 hours I’d be putting my suit on in the dark, fumbling with nerves. In 4 hours I’d be checking into the competition. And in 5 hours, I’d be arguing with judges.
I returned to my slumber, albeit briefly, because mid-dream, conscious Ben bombarded the unconscious one. Wake up! You’ve slept through your alarm! As it turns out, conscious Ben was lying. An hour to go. So the debate began: get up early or snooze some more.
But I wasn’t to make that decision.
The guy in the bunk next to me launched into a 15 minute scratch fest, scoring skin of a region I do not know. I first thought the mother fucker was whacking it. The bed’s response, however, wasn’t consistent with a jerk. As it turns out, prolonged scratching of an undisclosed region is unsettling all the same. The universe must have a real sense of timing because right when the clawing ceased, the full-bodied voice of a woman wafted into my room from the alley below, asking a cab-less driver if he could take her where she was going.
It was time to get out of bed, regardless of the clock. I needed a shower.