Two of my cats, ginger tabbys, greet me with sleepy eyes and soft purrs. The sun pours on them, a liquid blanket of gold. They shift to accept my pets, turning the sun into flames rippling across their coats, their purring increasing to something like the noise of a distant roaring fire.
Writing is loud and lonely work, sleep’s enemy.
I stare at the ceiling. The sun isn’t even thinking about rising yet. What in the world am I doing up? I sneak out of the bedroom.