"Boring," I kept telling myself, "this is boring," as I looked at the clock for what - the fifteenth time? The red digital digits seemed to bore into my mind, the one actually two thin lines with a dark spot in the center, the zeroes made up of six tiny lines, almost like the eight but the very center line not glowing garish red. Eleven o'clock became eleven oh one, eleven oh two and on and on and on.
The headboard was an odd concoction of wood shapes, the pattern so large it was seemingly pattern-less unless you really concentrated on the twist and turn of individual wood pieces. It must have been really difficult to finish the wood without forming the drips of excess stain or varnish and yet even looking deep into the most intricate joints of wood showed no excess. Someone had to have spent a lot of time finishing the wood.
The sheets felt so soft under my knees and hands, I guessed it must have been three -- four hundred thread count. Hell, was that a lot? Was it really more like an 800 thread count? Who really counts them anyways? I mean if you buy the sheets and then sit down and only count say seven hundred ninety do you take them back and demand a refund.
"Well the ad said eight hundred and there's only seven hundred and ninety threads!"
"You're not supposed to count them."
"But if I don't count them how will I know if it's really eight hundred threads?"
"You feel the smoothness, the softness of it."
