Finally spent, I lean back onto my pillow, sweat drenching the crisp white linen. My chest heaves. My pulse thrums loudly in my ear as endorphins flood my brain with welcome euphoria.
I close my eyes and allow a soft gurgle to escape my smiling lips. I laugh. I laugh again, louder now.
Fuck. Damn, it’s hot. The fan turns its impotent head towards me and mocks me by blowing more hot air at my sweaty, half naked self. Hot.
Deep breaths get deeper, slower. My pulse eases off its manic urgency.
Breathe in. Out… And in… … …and out.
The thing that gets me, that really irks me about all this rushing feel-good euphoria is that this divine high I feel, supine on wet sheets, is not from a handful of pills or a lungful of crystal meth. Nope.
It doesn’t take that much to wreck me these days. Not at age 42.
No, what took me out was a handful of household chemicals. Detergents. And a mop and cloth. A simple morning’s household cleaning. Stacked the dishes, ready to wash, and cleaned the bathroom.
And that’s me, done. Finished. Sweating like an inappropriate metaphor and rushing like a nineties raver – thanks to the physical exertion, not from breathing in ShowerShine, mind!
Domestic godding is not for sissies.
© Dave Luis 2016. All Rights Reserved.
Image by Christopher Campbell at unsplash