The best, most satisfying stretch happens at 5:40am when you're at your desk downstairs and you're pulled from the page by the sound of his alarm upstairs.
In a moment, he blindly pats his nightstand, hushing it, then discovers you never joined him.
If you were going to sleep, you would've shown up, but showing up there means not showing up here.
(You did consider waking him, you were so awake around 2:45, and there are such lovely things to do when you two are so awake and the children are so asleep, but he has a Real Job. Let the man sleep.)
The wee hours go by quickly whether you work or sleep or (a)rouse a man who needs sleep. Besides, you talked such a big talk earlier.
"I'm going to wrestle it into submission," you said as you found your slippers. He was brushing his teeth as you doubled-down, "I bet it's shiny and brilliant by 2."
But it wasn't. How could it? You didn't begin properly until 10:40. (That wasn't your fault. You have children, and 66 unread emails. You should've waited until the sludge reached 666. That's what it is, anyway.)
Around 1, you thought about disarming the house alarm in order to break out the good ice cream from the garage freezer.
Too much work.
Just do The Work. How is this not a Real Job? OF COURSE it is.
So you do it, the work. You even finish the fucking thing! (Yes. Again. No one told you that writing meant finishing the same thing several times, but now it's REAL and GREAT, so who cares?!)
You hit "send" fifteen seconds before his alarm sounds, then, and only then, you stretch.
You like how "stretch" works for a vague duration of time, and to extend one's self.
Keep extending yourself, you think. Keep stretching.
It never feels this good after something easy. ...