Flowering

Somewhere between the first time he slapped the snooze button and the second time the alarm rang, it sprouted. He’d hit it again, and rolled over, seeing the stalk stretch up. Ungraspable memories of the night before budded and bloomed. Things he said. Things he’d done.

His mouth woke up before he did. Working its dry thickness against the morning air, and his need for another few minutes, or hours, of sleep.

The third time the alarm rang, the regret had blossomed. Fresh, bright petals spread out.

Red-eyed, he stared at the numbers, until they finally meant something to him.

Prompt courtesy of ismithwords’ Literary Lion.

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