He just woke up. And the first thing he did was to yawn. He dragged his body to make coffee, and to get dressed. He tiredly walked to the bus stop for commute. He pushed through the hardship to get to his colleague’s desk without dropping the folder. He fought to keep his eyes open on his return trip. He could not help but wonder if this would be the rest of his life.
I always like watching the stretch of the thin flesh around the edges of her mouth, usually hidden by fur. Those little fangs on full display, so small and yet capable of such damage; the ridged teeth spaced out along her jaw revealed with a cavernous gape under folded cheeks. Her ears always fold flat, pulled taut along with the rest of the muscles in her face. Many a photo have I snapped in the apex of the motion to be forwarded along to friends with a loud caption. My favorite part, though, might be her whiskers. They spread like the feelers of a deep sea creature, trembling faintly with the force of the facial musculature tensing and tugging, catching light that makes them glow like the lit stripes of neon special effects on a reel of film from the eighties.
It’s all over a moment later–her face snaps shut with a little scrunch, and her tongue curves over her muzzle as she notices my gaze and chirps in pleasant acknowledgement. I extend a hand, and she lifts gracefully to her paws to saunter my way with a raised tail. “Big yawn for a little girl,” I croon at her as she purrs into my scritching. Cats are interesting little things, and even such a mundane motion is fascinating to watch when on a face as endearing as hers.
I yawn and visions of a summer lawn stretch langquidly to a chaise longue awaiting a silk and lawn clad maiden to recline.
Wide stretch, arms above head, full body shiver, little shake to stay awake, eyes blink fast, head jerks up, look around.
He just woke up. And the first thing he did was to yawn. He dragged his body to make coffee, and to get dressed. He tiredly walked to the bus stop for commute. He pushed through the hardship to get to his colleague’s desk without dropping the folder. He fought to keep his eyes open on his return trip. He could not help but wonder if this would be the rest of his life.
I always like watching the stretch of the thin flesh around the edges of her mouth, usually hidden by fur. Those little fangs on full display, so small and yet capable of such damage; the ridged teeth spaced out along her jaw revealed with a cavernous gape under folded cheeks. Her ears always fold flat, pulled taut along with the rest of the muscles in her face. Many a photo have I snapped in the apex of the motion to be forwarded along to friends with a loud caption. My favorite part, though, might be her whiskers. They spread like the feelers of a deep sea creature, trembling faintly with the force of the facial musculature tensing and tugging, catching light that makes them glow like the lit stripes of neon special effects on a reel of film from the eighties.
It’s all over a moment later–her face snaps shut with a little scrunch, and her tongue curves over her muzzle as she notices my gaze and chirps in pleasant acknowledgement. I extend a hand, and she lifts gracefully to her paws to saunter my way with a raised tail. “Big yawn for a little girl,” I croon at her as she purrs into my scritching. Cats are interesting little things, and even such a mundane motion is fascinating to watch when on a face as endearing as hers.