I end every day with great expectations. Tomorrow, I tell myself, I will write and write. I will find time to edit the podcast and build my website. But the nights are too warm. I melt on top of the sheets and leave a damp outline behind me.
We stay up too late. Last night we talked on the back porch until five while the moon sank murky yellow into the waves. Tonight it’s earlier, but I know I’ll be hammered in the morning. I always am.
The mosquitos have been going for my ankles. Now they blaze red with irritation. I can’t sleep. Outside the frogs chirp an avant-garde symphony, tunelessly, but with feeling. The fans hum in the corners of the room, shifting warm air from one side to the other. Above all, the sea crashes and slurps and giggles outside my window. It talks to me all night long. It’s a character in my dreams.
At night, with sweat beaded above my eyebrows, I sometimes roll over and reach for a nonexistent blanket. In my half-sleep the sea sounds like the Idaho wind whipping at the sides of the house. My mind shivers while my body sweats.
Too comatose to laugh at myself, I melt into the sheets again. Today has been a satisfying waste of time. But tomorrow—tomorrow I will write. Tomorrow I will record. I’ll really get things done tomorrow.