“I can’t have red hair.” That’s the first thought I notice in my rousing-from-sleep brain. The second is, “Was that thunder?”
It might have been the thunder that woke me. I enjoy changes in weather: lightning, rain, fog, thunder. They often wake me predawn and call me to sit in the dark with the sliding glass door open, watching and listening.
At least I hope it was the thunder and not the redhead. It’s bad enough the characters in my WIP intrude on mealtimes, grab me in the middle of the grocery store so I have to scribble words on the back of a receipt. It’s bothersome when I can’t get to sleep, compelled to spend hours contemplating how to get Harry from the beach where he wanted to kill himself to the backroom of the seedy bar where he’s going to rescue the damsel in distress.
But to have one of you wake me up in the middle of the night is just too much.
Go back to sleep, redhead. The morning will be soon enough to bleach your hair blond, or figure out how to describe that shade of brunette which favors people of Italian descent.
It’s 2 a.m., and if it was you, I implore you, “Leave me alone and let me sleep.”