It was one of those mornings. He loved those mornings.
Some days just feel special. Jake knew from the outset that this was going to be one of those days. Even the cracked mirror in the bathroom smiled at him that morning. Twice. When he was brushing his teeth. And then when he was shaving. He knew it was going to be an awesome day.
It was one of those mornings. Everything seemed possible. He felt ready to tackle the biggest challenges. Surmount the biggest obstacles. The stars were aligned and the sky was the limit. And he wanted to reach the sky. He felt good. Really good. It was one of those mornings. He loved those mornings.
The autumn sky was dark and grey outside. It was drizzling. It was forecasted to rain later today. Low to Mid 60s. He did not mind. He actually liked the rain. He liked the sound of the rain. Tiny splashes. Thousands of tiny splashes. He liked to listen to the symphony of splishes and splashes that raindrops make on his tainted windowpanes. He found it very soothing. There was something very melancholic about the sound of the rain that he considered very inspiring. He is a funny guy in that respect.
He had a big fight with Marie the night before. He did not even remember what it was about. Suffice it to say that feelings were hurt. Temper flared and voices were raised. “I am getting the hell out of here!” she screamed. She walked out, slamming the door locked behind her. That’s when he saw that she has forgotten her keys and her new iphone in her Burberry purse, which was sitting nicely on top of the kitchen table. The keys for her VW Golf and for her apartment. The ones with the cute keychain that says “J’aime Paris” — she has never been to Paris but she loved the city anyway. How was she planning to get home? It is cold and dark outside. It was 10:30 PM.
Two or three minutes later, sure enough, there was a shy knock, a tentative knock on the door. He waited a bit before answering. “Who is it?” he asked. Just to mess with her. “It’s me, you idiot! Let me in.” He could not help finding the whole situation hilarious. “And she is baaack!” he teased when he finally opened the door. Flushing with embarrassment, she punched his arm gently as he was hugging her. “Ouch! What was that for? Next time you walk out on me, please do not forget your keys.” He loved that girl.
They slept very well that night. Very deep and sound slumber. The kind of sleep they always have after an intense session of intimacy. The kind of sensual communion they always have after a major quarrel. He used to joke that they should fight more often. Just to enjoy that restful sleep that followed the wonderful post-dispute rapprochement. This always made her smile. And then laugh. He loved her laugh. There was something contagious and therapeutic about it. Something magical.
Marie has already left when he woke up. It was 9:30 AM. Her fragrance still lingered on his bed sheets. On his pillows. On his hair. Not a perfumed or soapy smell. Just a clean smell. A very feminine smell. A pleasant body odor that he has always found irresistible. Almost intoxicating. He stayed in bed for a while to take it all in. Then he jumped out of bed. With a spring in his step and a smile on his face, he walked to the bathroom to find the cracked mirror smiling back at him.
He felt fresh and energized as he sat down at the kitchen table with his laptop and his first cup of coffee of the day. The coffee was strong and smelled wonderful. He drank Arabica coffee from Rwanda, without cream or sugar. Pure. He liked the unadulterated sharp-tangy taste. He paused briefly to replay the events of the previous night in his head. He could still smell Marie on his fingertips. Her pleasant musky fragrance made him smile — they should definitely fight more often.
He turned off the radio. No NPR today. No Diane Rehm or Kojo Nnamdi. No listening to Elvis Costello on Spotify either. It was starting to rain harder outside. He wanted to listen to the splashes of the raindrops hitting the windows. It was in perfect harmony with the first clicks of his laptop keyboard. A rhythmic symphony of clicks and splashes. Ideas and inspirations were percolating.
He began to tell his story. Creative juices were flowing. Words would soon fill the screen of the faithful old MacBook Air. Eight hundred and twelve words. He knew it was going to be an amazing day. It was one of those mornings. He started typing: “Some days just feel special.”
