It is five in the morning.
I am in bed. Breath washes in and out of me and I feel my life with each its waves. Chirps from squirrels and coos of mourning doves are clear in the morning air, which smells sweet and fecund as it wafts in through the open windows. The fan above the bed chills me just enough so that I pull the sheet up and lift it a bit before letting it fall, soft and gentle, upon my skin.
My splendid king and I have just done what men and women in bed do on mornings such as this.
He is very near sleep, but my body still thrums with the energy of climax. I listen to the sound of him, the barely audible inhalations and exhalations. His arm lay upon my back. There is the weight of it. There is the warmth of his flesh.
Our daughter sleeps in the next room.
I have two hours to doze and dream and traverse the thin plenum that separates asleep from awake as many times as I wish.
There is nothing that could improve my life at this moment. Not a million dollars or being taller or longer legs or a slimmer waist. This moment would not be better if there were a BMW Z4 in the garage. This is a perfect moment.
This is what it is like to be a god.
Therein, dear reader, is my purple, velvet-draped demise. Oh hubris, how you tempt and destroy me.
The strange tingle I feel deep in the flesh of my foot hardly garners my attention. But then, faster than I can say "orgasm," it escalates into an angry cramp and at once my big toe is unnaturally and painfully distended.
I stretch out my leg silently, trying not to wake my husband. It has no effect.
"ow ow ow"
I slide from under his arm and he rolls over. I stand and commence the Idiotic Foot Cramp dance with which we are all familiar.
"ow ow ow goddamn ow shit ow"
My big toe is a defiant exclamation point, protesting having to be part of my foot. The cramp is remarkably indifferent to my efforts. I put more fervor into my hopping and stamping.
Then, dear reader, Erin go boom.
On my way down, I flail at the nightstand in an effort to stop the tumble, but instead end up only taking the cup of water with me. It splashes. I thud. The hard plastic of the cup hits the hard wood floor and bounces again and again. I am doused, naked and splayed on the floor.
My daughter rouses and comes to see.
My husband peers over the edge of the bed with bewilderment.
The cramp, having accomplished its mission, subsides.