Mornings

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic
Written out of apathy.

Submitted: August 31, 2013

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Submitted: August 31, 2013

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She woke up. The dog woke up too. The dog scratched at her ear and made the bed shake. It was 6:32 Thursday morning. The list of unfinished things to do written bleary eyed at 1 in the morning, on the back of her hand, had blurred. Nothing would be printed, and the work would be crammed into the ten minutes before class started. A mirror imprint was blurred upside down in an awkward place on her side. How the hell was I sleeping like that? Musing. The stretched t-shirt twisted across the bedsheets, raising over her belly. A foot dangled, close to the carpet. Fingetips reaching behind the bedpost grasped the fingers of rising sun, and shook their hand, to greet the new day.

Feet thumped on the floor. Hair raked through by a comb, almost passionately, trying to get it to lie flat. How to wake up in the morning; get passionate over self grooming that every day shows the same results. A pony tail. The hair goes up. It is greasy,and this bothers her. The hair goes down. Stop sticking out like that. The comb gnaws at it again, it’s teeth biting back some frizz, very little. Making a, somewhat normal, shape. No, I’ll run hot water over it later, she says. The hair goes up. She goes down the stairs for breakfast.

The tea takes too long to cool. She burns her tongue. Bleary eyed is literal, she feels the three day old plastic contacts, dry, slept in again. Adgusting to the fluorescent in the kitchen. The plastic hardens her eyes. Clatter. A clank in the sink that makes her flinch. The dissonance. Oh, the morning machine. It creaks already, at the knees. She stretches like a cat. The mirror is behind her. She thinks her thighs are fat. Checks the weather, to see whether to put on pants today, or a skirt. But her calves are unshaven. But her legs are fat. Decisions, decisions.

She was brushing her teeth. She heard a rude, repetitive buzz, from her room. The toothbrush abandoned, and she answered a phone number she did not recognize. They had the wrong number. She had expected someone else. Realizing whom she was expecting, she dwelled, superficially, knowing it wouldn’t do anything. It used to be upsetting, but now it was just a nuisance, that she couldn’t remember the exact way he walked, and how his lips tasted. Merely a bother, the remedy best suited for time was apathy. It had been far too long.

And she wonders. It is a forbidden thought. It is doubt. Why, does he not call. Yes, he is busy. He is so, busy. Why did you abandon him, cross the city. You left. We discussed this. We talked about it, said it was. Well, he cried. You miss each other. You always call first. Is it annoying? But he always sounds so happy.  It’s genuine. But you’ve forgotten how genuine the  sound of a rise of a hopeful smile can be over a phone. It’s not far really. The school’s in the same city. Why does he not call. What does he think? What goes through that beautiful cranium every day. I’ve always wanted to know. But now, it is apathy, to block out such thoughts. To block out the doubt. The thought, of whether..of how, and why. Those are forbidden thoughts. They do not rise to the surface. They are oil slicks that shimmer only when the sun highlites them with an intense light, at certain angles. Sometimes, you stop going to the beach at all, and avoid the shoreline entirely.

She goes to the internet. Social media. Refreshes the page mindlessly, over and over. Knows she’s doing it mindlessly, over and over. It is an escape. A lousy one. She refreshes the page. Click, scroll. All these people, all so superficial. I’m superficial. She knows. The knowledge is greeted with uncaring boredom. She thinks about him. and how he would go on Wikipedia and learn something. She envys him whence words fly out of their mouth. But she does not think of that, dwell on such things, now. That was a different time, when she dwelled on such self-depricating pessimism. Now she greets boredom with boredom, hours on end of click. Scroll. Wondering. Click, refresh. Click, scroll. Scroll. Small flickers in brain activity when seeing poetry, or anything that opens up, really. Not having the attention span long enough to finish reading it. Scroll. Click. Refresh. Repeat.


© Copyright 2020 Anne Miller. All rights reserved.

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