I knocked softly and was rewarded with an opened door. Caleb is up! Surprise of all surprises he is showered and dressed and nursing a teal-green-black mug of strong coffee in the kitchen. His blackberry is buzzing nonstop, the newspaper is deconstructed and all over the counter top and the remnants of a hard-boiled egg and toast remain on a plate near the sink. I'm suitably impressed. I had considered bringing the cymbals over, figuring I would have to make some serious noise to get him up.
He kisses my cheek in greeting. I see the fatigue then, in and around his eyes. He didn't bother shaving and is in jeans and a long-sleeved white waffle knit tee. A home-day at least. Good. I think he needs a break today. I tell him I will bring him with me to run errands and that he can rest assured he didn't recite most of the Princess Bride in his drunkenness last evening (it's a thing, every. single. one. of the boys has done this at one time or another) and he holds up his hand and tells me he drank water on my advice and doesn't feel that badly today and besides, he read word for word what he said in my journal and is there anything he can do or offer in exchange for not writing publically anymore?
Of course not. I look cross at him, because cross is what that comment deserves. But then I soften. How are you really feeling?
Like a forty-nine-year-old frat boy.
Excellent. Get your jacket. We're going grocery shopping.
Is Loch coming? I don't think I could take that giant food warehouse and the redhead at the same time right now.
No, he has work to do.
Thank Christ.
Funny, he said the same thing.
