She would never even consider it; not Barbara. She had to keep to her “routine.” It is the rule she always told me when I tried to pull her back into bed. “No,” You know the rule,” she’d snap without even a tiny attempt to be nice about it. Off she would go always in the same awful get-up, gross unbrushed teeth and hair. Off to the desk which she never failed to reach precisely at 7am and where she kept her ample ass until 10am. She was a dedicated writer, and it was her mission, her attempt to honor faithfully that great ART. She was full of fear of the load she carried trying to live up the shrine, the calling, to the Lord she had sworn duty to at some ridiculously young age. Six days a week the routine was carried out during all the years I lived with her.
My needs are different, and have been since long before I met Barbara and her writing rules. I don’t go to my desk or tool bench before I have my coffee, and if I can get it in bed so much the better. Who brings me that strong, black brew is all the same to me – the neighbor’s wife, an internet hook-up, the kid out there mowing my lawn. I don’t care so long as they have two Bett cells that work and the strength to push down on my French press. I can even tolerate small talk while I sip.