Klaxone

I sink further into the corner of the sofa, my besocked feet tucked in in front of me. I prop my orange mug of steaming coffee on my knees, the wisps of steam swirling and swooping in the sunlight, buffeted by my steady breath. The sun beams through the window, smiling, and creates shafts and boxes in the bacon-hazy air, as dust motes drift quietly past. The yellow light is warm and inviting, and I can feel the heat of it on my face and chest. It’s telling me it is summer, and I should come play. But it’s lying to me. It’s in cahoots with someone else. If you look carefully, squint your eyes just right, you can see Old Man W