Chilanga Sprinkles

 I sit on the couch, a cooling cup of coffee nestled in my hands, my flesh absorbing its remaining warmth. I sit, silently making an argument for laying my stiff morning body on the floor to stretch. Thinking about how it would be me then transferring heat to the floor not yet warmed by sun. Thinking about how much better my body would feel moving through the world today if I would just stretch. Max walks into the living room. My mind shifts from the stretching to the cadence of her movement. If I were blind, I would recognize her by the sound of her walk. She hops on the couch beside me with as much grace as her 15 years allows her. This is a rare occurrence now— Max on the furniture. I place the cup on its saucer and shift my body to face hers. Her cloudy eyes meet my bifocaled ones. She shifts from one paw to another, not so much fluffing the cushion as finding her footing. I reach out to stroke the sagging skin around her neck, my own wattle flush with my chin as I look down on her. She leans into my hand, turning her neck so I will rub the fur around her ear. Slowly she relaxes into the cuddle and lays her snout on my lap, her hot breath on my knee. Two old broads, enjoying a few moments before the day begins.