Still groggy from my dream of the Heavenly Days Spa. Everyone there wore petal pink choir robes, even the wise-eyed, wrinkled-face proprietress, who spoke to me in a voice that suggested some previous life full of cigarettes and whiskey. That voice sounded like driftwood, aged and impossibly smooth.
I listened as she looked at and through me and agreed that a full day at the Spa sounded like just the medicine for the rejuvenation of this soul.
Suddenly, I remembered I was supposed to be at home to go with Buck to a physical therapy appointment this morning for a partially torn supraspinatus muscle in his right rotator cuff. I checked my phone. Sure enough. He had left a message for me. I pushed the speed dial for home, and woke up.
Good thing, too. He really does have that physical therapy appointment this morning, and it's almost time to hit the shower.