In the morning I get up.

Not immediately — I lie still for a moment first, the way I've started doing, taking stock of the day before it begins. The chest there, the weight of it against the mattress, familiar now in the manner that things become familiar when you've woken to them for over a week. The mild awareness of last night's underwear, which has done what underwear does now, the slight damp of it, and I get up and deal with this in the bathroom before I do anything else. The mechanics of this have become unremarkable.

I shower. I dress.

I've been lurking here for a long time but writing fiction is not my thing. Recently, in the comments of a story, CindySadnya mentioned that she found me very good with words and hoped to check what I've written here, and this got me thinking. While I'm still convinced that my mind is not built for writing stories I might nevertheless produce something that people here would consider worth reading. So, let's try this mood piece about days long past.

Bob and Tessa’s Place, Ocean Front Condo, Virginia Beach, Va.
Bob looks over towards Tessa, who was sound asleep on their bed. They just got back from California last night. Dr. Jessica Blake was successful in transplanting the reproductive organs from Tessa to his body, without any problems.

This story is a sequel to a story I wrote several years ago, "To the Mana Born." Readers are invited to revisit the earlier story (already here at Big Closet) to find out about what's gone on before.