1, 2, 3. . . the hand always makes that precise number of attempts before it can find the phone. Usual blinded by a few seconds because of its light and then I finally get the time in focus. 6:15 am. Too early to wake up, but it's not a news anymore. I sleep less and less, and when I finally sleep is I don't really rest, nightmares more and more frequent wake me up in panic and palpitations. The feeling that this bed is too big to be alone lies here with me. I decide to try to turn to the other side of bed and arrive at the time the alarm clock will tell me that the day has officially begun.
Other check time: 6:22am. Like it's a different story now.
I get up, apathetic as always, like every morning since the smell of coffee telling "have a nice day" has gone. You had managed to make me lose that habit, my ritual of having coffee at the bar on the way to work: someone knowing me would have thought it was a scene from some post-apocalyptic movie. But it was impossible to start the day without that moment before leaving the house.
After all, every time I got up I still found you there, still in front of the coffee machine that you had given me only not to give up your espresso with some blend always coming from places in remote corners of the globe with unpronounceable names, and I didn't say a word, but I let my lips resting gently on your shoulder to give you good morning for me. Your voice always woke me tenderly, as if it were a thin caress, and you accepted just as lovingly that I would answer you for the first 10 minutes only with nods of the head and grumbling. You always found it adorable.
I take a quick shower, and while I'm looking at the bed I'm seriously tempted to throw myself back on it, just so I can leave the world outside, my cell phone rings: "Rizzoli...I'll be right there". I'm about to close the door to the apartment behind me when I look up and see the scene of those mornings we spent together sliding in front of me. You, simply perfect with your hand woven dressing gown, with the coffee cup in your hand, me entering the room with my ruffled hair and sulk, I challenge you by stealing the cup with that nectar I couldn't live without, brazing it out, and our hands touching. You can sulk for a too short time, shake your head slightly and give me a tender kiss. It takes me a few moments to respond to it, but when I do, I make up for lost time. My mind has not yet realized that I am awake, but yours is a call my body always responds to, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. In an instant you find yourself with your pelvis and hands against the kitchen counter, as if you didn't want to touch me for fear that I might mean that you want me to stop.
And it is at that moment that I regain a minimum of lucidity before losing myself, definitively, in the memory of us. I close that door, turn the key hard, as if somehow I'm turning it over. You come back today, it'll be hard enough as it is. Another day begins.