March 12, 2003

  • The hiatus between Brett and I is over, even before his last final this Friday, and in the strangest way.  I guess one never knows how much one loves someone until their strength comes to the fore.  Last night was such a night.  We're not sure whether it was the back utility room door, open to let out the early Spring heat (I'd say, "open to catch the early Spring AIR," but it was so smoggy downtown yesterday you could hardly BREATHE), the smell of home baking, or simply four single girls living in a bad neighborhood, but a stranger was lured towards our humble abode.  Saj had left at midnight, trying to get some sleep in before a morning chem exam, so there was no protective male presence around when we awoke about 3:00 a.m. to the sound of......well, actually, it was our chocolate Burmese cat Tootje who woke me up.  She was asleep on my chest when I felt her stir, stand spike upright, and "point" like a hunting dog at the long row of back windows.  She didn't jut her nose forward or string her tail out behind her, but she stared really hard at them and growled, unconsciously holding one quivering paw up.  Watchcat, I giggled  to myself.  Probably a dog outside.  I lolled my sleepy head that direction just in time to see a shadow loom in front of one of the shades.  Then, I heard a low, eerie whistle, as if the entity were musing diabolically.  Musing over, over......Oh, god!


    "Chelle,"  I whispered hoarsely.  "Chelle!!!!"


    "What," she breathed, her voice flat with somnolence.


    I dropped to the floor and literally crawled over to her bed, as if whoever it was might see me.  "Wake up!  Somebody's out there!"


    "Probably one of the guys," she said, knowing they were under oath never to come in that way.  "Bruce?!?"  she leaned forward and screeched, to which the intruder ran down the back steps and scurried away.  


    This was enough to propel both of us into the other room in ten seconds flat.   Sallie, finally being told that one of her worst fears had become a reality, was surprisingly calm--after Donna blocked the door with her sturdy student desk chair.  She methodically began calling a series of numbers, including her parents (who couldn't do a thing way over in Minnesota but voiced their concern, reminding their conservative daughter, at nigh five in the morning, of their initial objections to her living in the house, blah, blah, blah), then handed me the phone to get Brett. 


    The dear boy, he was behind the front door within twenty minutes with his stocky bunkermate, Bruce, shotgun in hand.  I fell into his arms like a child in my froo froo flannel nightie I wear only alone or on laundry days, and he felt so big, so strong.   Checking out the grounds, the guys discovered a trail of cigarette butts and trash near the back veranda.   So we decided to hold an all-night vigil to see if the dude came back around, Chelle and Bruce manning the back bedroom and me and Brett stationed in the study, where we soon wasted no time comforting each other.  Thus my second cry in the night was not one of terror, but one of passion; ah, sex can be so good when you feel loved and protected (and your man brings over an air mattress to cushion you from "the rack" under the hideaway).   And as if it were a sign of our Spring fervor, the only thing we saw amiss the entire night was a white domestic rabbit, someone's escaped pet, hopping by!