Morning tug-of-war

For the past few days I've been waking up every morning with the thought of having a muscle-rippling male person lying next to me, all solid and soft at the same time. It makes me want to lie in some more. So I resist the usual pre-programmed auto-response to reach out for the morning talk show host on my left to thrust me into reality, because the faint imaginery chemistry on my right draws me closer to what seems so much more appealing.

As I turn towards him, he stirs and turns, looking at my naked face. And in the half light of the early morning, I see the soft, scrapey stubble of his beard. It moves towards my vulnerable lips, and I think to myself, does my breath smell? And then realise how ridiculous that is. For one, my breath never smells, not even in the morning, and for another, can a figment of one's imagination, no matter how powerful, smell, for pete's sake. And with this profound question lingering in my head, I laugh at my silliness, turn around, reach out for my talk show host, and get the hell out of bed.