Flannel

I lie in bed, wrapped in flannel sheets and the green blanket I bought in Mexico when I was pregnant with my oldest.
The dog lies on the rug, half on the corner of my discarded flannel bathrobe.
We are both asleep, sort of.
I am sick and the dog is snoring; we produce a cacophony of snores and snorts.
I snore because I am sick; coughing and blowing and snoring slightly out of the left side as I breathe in.
The dog snores, because she is plump and bears the smashed in nose of her breed. She cannot help it. She always snores. I do not. At least to my awareness.
We pass the time in genial companionship, not bothering one another while lost in the music of a lazy Sunday. Laters.