Bunny Flops

There is a soft thud as he throws himself down on the cardboard. His hazelnut eyes close slightly, and his ears relax. Now he is comfortable, ready for an afternoon nap. The black fur on his back gives way  to gray on his belly, but this is the only time I can see it. In sleep, he is a peaceful ball of soft fur and curly whiskers. When he is awake, he is a terror--made obvious by the barrier of skateboards now surrounding our sofa. If he's not out and allowed to scamper around the living room and kitchen, he will run laps around his cage, slam dancing against the walls, and kicking his bedding around. Even if he is out, he will sometimes take to chewing on our ankles or digging at our feet. In the end though, there is nothing more that I want than for him to be a happy rabbit. That may sounds silly, but I genuinely want to give him the fullest, happiest possible life a pet rabbit could have. R even built him a castle out of cardboard, with tunnels and rooms for him to sleep, so that he have his own burrow (along with a myriad of other cardboard boxes and toys for him to play with).

The afternoon sunlight wains behind the curtains, as he sleeps in his castle beneath the window and I work on the other side of the room. I'm waiting now for the dude to show up, after an awkward conversation on the phone trying to explain who I was who he knew and why I was calling. He says 30 minutes, but it could be 30 hours knowing him--at least it's in the Post.

Tomorrow we're meant to meet with R's mom at the museum and see a new exhibit, then go to the movies and perhaps have dinner. His mom is a fascinating woman, a doctor, full of life, the kind of woman you'd want to interview, but not the kind you want judging you/asking you a lot of questions. Perhaps it's my own fears of making a good impression at each meeting that I assume she is judging me because I'M judging me (social anxiety and such). She's the kind of Jewish woman who learned Krav Maga with the Black Panthers in the '70s up in the Bronx--not the kind you want to fuck with.

I'm still waiting. It's been 30 minutes now, and I'm hoping against all odds that he is on time, so I can drop one ganker rail before R gets home.

He's 30 minutes late now............................................ just shit myself so I guess the timing is good. Never had that happen before, and then all I could do was hope, sitting on the toilet, he would not ring the doorbell. It literally looked like piss in the toilet, but somehow it had come out of my colon. That doesn't make me feel very good about my health, or anything really. YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO PEE OUT OF YOUR ASS, but I guess anything is possible.

An hour has now slipped by since he said he would be here, and I feel worse than ever. My body is riled up, my nose is running, work is boring, and waiting for him to arrive is like some kind of test of endurance. It's a test that I don't have a choice but to pass.

He came and went quietly; an hour and a half late. Finally, the tension slipped from my body as the dead bolt clicked in the door frame.

Dinner time at last.