He looks ridiculously adorable when he’s sleeping. I’d take a photo for you, but I worry that Austin would see it as a complete betrayal and ban me from The House on the Hill for life.
So you’ll just have to take my word on it.
The Prince of Darkness would never lie to you, would I?
Welcome, friends, to the Sundays With Satan Short Story Series. My name is Satan and I’ll be your host today.
Because my co-host is sound asleep on his living room couch. Drooling all over it, mind you. Thank goodness I never sit on that end. Could you imagine what drool might do to my impeccably tailored suits?
The mere thought of that is my personal Hell.
Still, he does look adorable. So innocent. So peaceful.
From the way Gary the Gargoyle tells it, this is pretty much the first time Austin has stopped to relax since Monday when he returned to work from “The Vacation About Which We Dare Not Speak”.
Apparently, he has worked a grand total of sixty-two hours since Monday and has not allowed himself a single day off from the job that he admits melts his brain.
He’s also gone running on four of those days, and has been working on his screenplay and writing daily posts for this blog.
If he keeps working, focusing his mind on creative projects, and running his body into a sweaty, healthier mess, there is no time left for his thoughts to drift to the Emerald Isle, where his heart is already trapped.
With that kind of schedule, it was only a matter of time before sleep claimed him.
Our sweet, awkward, heart broken prince has somehow contorted his hulking 6’3″ frame to find comfort on a couch that is not quite that long.
Don’t ever let him tell you that he doesn’t snore, Modern Philosophers. The windows in the living room are rattling from the vibrations caused by the sonic blasts being emitted from his mouth at the moment.
I’d be surprised if one of his neighbors doesn’t call in a noise complaint.
Even though he looks perfectly at peace right now, there have been moments so alarmingly frightening that I’ve been tempted to wake him.
There were fits of screaming, mostly in Irish slang terms, that didn’t quite make sense, but led me to believe he was dreaming about her.
Later, he actually sat up in his sleep, let loose with a mighty right hook, and then yelled at an unseen intruder to unmask himself and finally reveal his identity.
He immediately curled back up on the couch and commenced snoring.
I would wake him, but to do so would exchange one misery for another. He needs his rest, even if that rest looks more eventful than his waking hours.
So I’ve pulled up a chair and kept an eye on my fatigued friend while reading the Sunday paper.
I wish there was more I could do for him, but something tells me that a Sunday free of spending time with me is the greatest gift I could supply right now.
Follow me on Pinterest, or I’ll send Satan to watch you while you sleep…