On Mondays he often found himself desiring a return to the womb. It would become apparent as he was making his morning coffee. Always, at some interval between micro-tasks, the realization would float to the surface. The faucet ran, he with empty carafe in hand and immobile, staring out and beyond the shredded-wheat, martian landscape of his early spring backyard. Magic 8-Ball stops and a message from the subconscious resolves itself across the inky divide.
Womb.
Somewhere, a rogue process was sparking off about wanting that feeling. It wasn’t so much a cocoon reaction, but more of a wish to bring that atom-deep feeling of warm, happy, empty safety into the rest of existence.
Then he would shake his head, often literally, and return to completing his task. Coffee.
