Empty House

There is something beautiful about an empty house. Or horrifying, depending on how you view things.
 
Waking up to the realization that nobody is home, and that nobody will be home for quite some time can be a great feeling. No waiting in line for the bathroom, computer or TV. Nobody to bug me about rising late, or watching trashy shows, or eating a strange lunch (cold pizza and plantain chips). I can work out in the living room in my sports bra without worrying about someone watching and laughing at me. I can listen to my loud music without bothering anyone. My cat, realizing I am the only one home, is my new best friend, and I can roam about freely without having to listen to mindless chatter. I like to think that my cat and I have a special sort of bond. When the rest of the family is around, we sink into a shell, responding to prodding with annoyance or indifference. But when we are alone, we have a silent agreement. I leave him alone, and he leaves me alone. Except occasionally when I walk by or he walks by and we exchange a quick hug or pet, and a hello. We are both in our element, not having to deal with the fam.
 
I am the master of the house. Until 3, when the family starts to trickle back. Then I will retreat to my room, to sit listening to music, drowning out the clatter.