Blue-Gray

She's fluffing pillows rather agitatedly. Time and again she looks out of the open window searchingly. Like she was looking for rain clouds or a predetermined guest or even the mailman who comes around daily. It's almost pathetic, the yearning that is written on her face. Around her is a 'perfect mess' in her own words. She looks at it and sighs. After a determined toss of the head, she reminds herself that she created that perfect mess to spend her perfect Saturday in this perfect state of perfect bliss- by doing perfect reorganisation and perfect reordering. Something that usually keeps her so engrossed and thrilled for hours has lost its charm today. Her attention is continuously drawn to the open window and the view beyond. And the expectation. It's a cold Saturday she muses as the wind from the open window stings her. The short-sleeves don't help her too much and her blanket's nowhere to be found. She does know how to create her messes for fun! It's too tiring - the wait. She picks up her pillow, cuddles up in bed with it, sans blanket and tries to go to sleep. It's at times like these that she reveres Hobbes and the dinner-time philosophy. The i-pod which lies next to her is playing a recording of a ditty she wrote. The one she hums to a new tune each time. This recording is of a happy tune. Today she might hum it to a melancholy one, you just can never tell with her. The mess is still lying everywhere, perfectly cluttering her oh-so-perfect room. Edginess might well be the guest she is expecting cos that's what she's accumulating more than any mess. She knows the routine. Edginess giving way to frustration which later makes way for desperation which finally leaves to make room for compromise. She lies with her face cupped in her hands, elbows resting on the pillow and observes the mess from her lofty bed above. The head slowly sags and the elbows give way. Sleep has finally conquered the empty space she was staring into. The perfect room can wait. She will have her not-so-perfect sleep first, illuminated with the far-from-perfect dreams, to be finally awaken by the imperfect alarm clock when it's dark outside. That's why she hates sleeping during the day is the oh-so-perfectly-smug chide she allows herself before being whisked away into the sanctuary that is sleep and semi-consciousness.