Coffee. It was time.
He couldn’t rise. This stone spell that gripped him, keeping him there, on the floor, in that odd stretched position, had no sign of feigning, moving. It wanted him on that floor. Not writing, not sipping any coffee. Just there. The unproductive hound. The lazy non-writing house dog.
The refrigerator threw its simultaneous two-note humming that always relaxed him; one low, muffled dusty baritone accompanied by a stretched, clean metallic chirp. And then it left. He hated the floor again. And the spell keeping him there. 6:54AM, his laptop said from the upper-right corner. “I’m getting coffee. Fuck this floor. No oeuvre’s coming from this.”
6:58. Still there. He didn’t fight it anymore. When he rose, he’d be standing. But he couldn’t fight this. Not now. Not without coffee.