Night Visitors

 So yes–we went on a short trip to San Francisco–and had a blast.

Mate and I went down Friday, had dinner at a place called Max’s in Burlingame, and generally enjoyed being adults, alone together. We had the television all to ourselves–it was a stunning indulgence. The next day we met friends–Andrew Grey and Karen Rose. Andrew and his husband Dom had been staying with Karen and her husband by the ocean, and Karen was returning them to the airport. Since Mate and I don’t live too far away, we made a day of it. A trip around the Bay on a tour cruise, a nice meal–and fantastic company. The next day we had brunch with another friend and his SO–and then, reluctantly, we returned home.

One of the first things I discovered when we got home was that the kids had ordered pizza instead of eating all the food I’d cooked before we left. *sigh* I mean, it was the weekend–pizza was to be expected. But still.

Anyway–that said, everybody has been the better for the time away and the breather–but appreciating my kids means appreciating their quirks. 

Such as…

Typing at night, absolutely dedicated to my project, only to sense a presence… not malign, just… a presence… behind me… just out of my line of sight. A hand reaches to my side, where I keep my water, and I gasp!

“Mom–just getting water. Love you, goodnight!” Squish (and I have permission to use that nickname again!) has made their nightly visit, and I can write in peace again.

Or can I?

Squish moves on delicate loaf-shaped feet, absorbing all sound. They’re a ghostly presence, a sort of living specter, haunting the space behind my desk chair. 

Not so, ZoomBoy. 

In the depths of night, ZoomBoy emerges. The creak of his door opening is eclipsed by the flap-flap-flap of his hideous troll feet as they pound the floorboards… they’re coming! They’re coming! They’re in the kitchen!  There is the rustle of paper, the creak of cellophane, the opening of chip bags and cookie cartons and then, a snorffling, a crunching, some great gulps, and a sigh of appreciation. 

I don’t even want to look at the kitchen to see the carnage within. 

Instead, I stay focused on my keyboard, getting, if possible, even more motivated to keep writing. 

Behind me, the troll feet resume their punishment of the hardwood, and a muffled, “Gnigh’molm” is heard, followed by the dropping of crumbs as ZoomBoy retires to his lair, captures cookie boxes and chip bags in his clutches.

And I am left alone in silence, wondering if there is anything left of the trip to the grocery store I made before, and stalwartly concentrating on my word count for the night.

My night visitors are gone, and I can retreat into fiction once more.

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