Nothing To Defend Against

He loved Alone.

Lived for it.

Up early in the morning dark. Making his way downstairs on two stiff and painful kness, a sore back and various other physical insults.

Cold water for the cats. They love their cold water. Food in their food bowls. Cats first. 

And then prescriptions, stretches, yogurt. And coffee. Dark and strong, which he was not.

Settling into the recliner in a silent house, a mostly dark house, but the light was coming. Unappreciated. Dark of morning, dark of night; that was the cover under which he was most comfortable.

Book, coffee and cat. That's the morning equation.

He was alone.

Yes, he had his cat, and the presence of his beautiful wife upstairs in bed fast asleep and peaceful (he envied her that), a strong, undeniable presence for which he was grateful.

But, for now, for all intents and purposes, he was alone.

Nothing to defend against except his own thoughts, which not even a good book could beat back.

His weak spot, his vulnerability. Thoughts.

Thoughts that robbed him of a perfect moment, every morning.