You’ve Got Mail Consciousness took her by surprise, the indeterminate dream that had been

You’ve Got Mail Consciousness took her by surprise, the indeterminate dream that had been fuzzing around her mind clearing up like a raincloud before the sun. She blinked her eyes open, rolled onto her back and pushed the duvet off her body with a lackadaisical habit. It was a ritual now, inviting the cold air to do what the diminished willpower of those first morning moments could not. It pulled her away from sleep. She got up. Coffee was just a stalwart a friend, although she couldn’t help but discourage it. She sipped the mug between mouthfuls of cereal, her thumb flicking over a touchscreen. At one point she’d have turned on the television, or had a book by her side, and she couldn’t remember exactly when the tablet had become a replacement, but it wasn’t recent. Emails and messages blurred past bleary eyes, and she swiped.  Ten messages this morning. Not bad. It’d been worse in the past, though. Her finger hovered over the icon, her eyes roaming around the curved edges of the image, some designer’s attempt to render something as redundant as an envelope somehow relevant to the digital. She took a breath. She pressed.  Bad grammar and trite insistence sluiced past her eyes. The portraits were crass, to say the least, and she barely needed to give each one more than a few words attention before she knew the direction the rest were going in. Her morning ritual had become sullied, but there was enough anal retentiveness in her to be unable to tolerate any unread messages. It would be like leaving a garbage bag by the door, instead of in the dumpster. She selected the lot, and hit delete, and took another deep breath. They always seemed to be at their most active at night, as if by sneaking the message in while she was asleep would make her more likely to answer it when she woke up. As if, half awake and still groggy, she’d be more perceptible to their questionable charms. But in reality, it just worked against them. She wasn’t so much not in the mood as not that person, completely disjointed from her submission for a good twelve hours at least. There was no one to conjure it up out of her, inspire it, all her to manifest it, and so why on earth would these guys have the audacity to assume that they could grab her by the eyes and sneak their way in? The knuckle of her finger ground against her eye, dislodging a little sleep that had lodged there. She yawned, and took another sip of coffee. A few weeks ago, she’d tried an experiment, answered one of them with a question, a shrug conveyed in two words, just to see what would happen. The first message had been rude, but no more than any other. Something about how she was destined to serve at his feet, although with less interesting language. She thought for a moment. Yes, he’d used ‘belong’.  So she’d replied.  “Why me?” Two days later, she’d received another message, by the same man. But it wasn’t a reply to her question. Just more unjustified assumptions, trying to illicit a response to boring fantasies that he illustrated without care or skill. She’d deleted it without a second thought.  She hadn’t asked the question because she didn’t know the answer. Instead she just wanted to know if there was anything beyond animal lust, if it was more guided than that. And she'd received her answer. She couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. -- source link

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