Your eyes are creeping open to whispers, naturally gun shy to any sound arousing you from your casual 8pm nap. You can’t quite tell if it’s the opacity of your moist eyes or the tangled sherpa blanket obscuring your sight but you’re grateful all the same, protecting you from (in all likelihood) far too much light for the moment. The heat is overwhelming though, as if you’d fell asleep in deep January snow and were stolen to the embrace of a hot bath. It can’t be ruled out; an exhaustion-addled brain coupled with lapses in sensibility has produced stranger results. In your understandable, post-delirium state, the cat was an unfortunate casualty of your squirming, once as cozy as yourself but forced to hopping away.
Some subsumed infantility that comes with the stupor almost has you feeling bad for the cat but the unexpected, yet all-too-familiar lithe fingers trailing up your neck dispel that feeling. Instinctively, you know not to turn around, for fear of ending it. They may as well be lukewarm icicles, withering back down and away, shuffling back into that sherpa blanket behind you. As quickly as those mutterings pulled you out of sleep, they’re drawing you back in. Not a beat skipped.