“Good morning, the weather today is…”
He opened his eyes. The light from between the curtains hit his face directly. “Good morning,” he whispered. Then, he let out a sigh. He looked at the ceiling as the speaker went on with the rest of the report. He kept staring at the ceiling. Some music began to play in the background. He tried to form a smile but gave up after holding it for a few seconds. He felt the cold, damp pillow on his nape as he wiped some leftover sweat off his forehead. He threw the blanket off himself, and he put his right foot on the floor. He winced. The pain was worse in the mornings. He forgot about it during the day when he was busy. In the mornings, however, it always came without warning.
He sat on the bed as he listened to the music. Keep your head up, keep your-; he stopped listening. He got up, sighed again, and walked out of the bedroom. The coffee machine beeped as the familiar fragrance spread around the entire passageway. Some birds chirped as the song went further. Keep your mind set in your ways. Keep your heart strong.
He pulled out a shelf from below the counter and took a mug out. His leg hit the shelf, closing it immediately. He put the mug on the shelf and then stretched his arms around as he let out a huge yawn. He lifted the coffee pot off the machine and poured himself a cup. His eyes followed the steam up until he looked outside. The sun had just come up.
He picked his coffee and dragged his feet back to the bedroom. The blanket lay there as he left it. He did not pull it over himself. He picked up his book to read. He rested the mug on the bed, carefully. He tried to read, but his eyes felt heavy. He took a sip. He put the book on the bed and lied down flat. He stared at the ceiling, then outside the window. Some birds flew by it, over the blue sky. He tried to smile. He could hold it for just a second this time. Then, he sighed. He was exhausted.
“Hey, Google, what’s the time?” He said softly. “It’s seven-five AM,” the speaker replied immediately. He looked outside. He could only see the birds appear for a split-second between the two curtains. Then, they disappeared for a while. He looked at the plant at the windowsill. He stared outside and looked at the clouds. He closed his eyes. Some music kept playing in the background. He pulled the blanket over himself.
He opened his eyes, looking directly at the mug. He touched it. The coffee is cold, he thought. “Hey, Google, what’s the time?” He asked. “It’s eight-thirty-two AM”. He sighed. He couldn’t get his body to move. He looked outside again. It was sunnier now. He tried to smile. He couldn’t this time. Promise me this, the music went in the background, you’ll wait for me. He spaced out.
He sat up and looked down at the floor. He tried to get his body to move off the bed. His muscles didn’t budge. So, he picked the cold cup of coffee, and he took a sip. It tasted the same, just colder. He picked the book up again. He started reading. It was a Bukowski.
“It was the first time I had been alone for five days. I was a man who thrived on solitude; without it I was like another man without food or water. Each day without solitude weakened me. I took no pride in my solitude; but I was dependent on it. The darkness of the room was like sunlight to me. I took a drink of wine.”
He looked at the empty glass of wine on the counter near the mirror. Then, he looked at the book again. He continued reading. He flipped a page. He read further. “Cheer up. Maybe you’ll be famous after you’re dead.” He looked outside again. He spaced out. Then, he got tired of sitting. He kept the book toward his left and lay down back.
No man is an island, this I know. He opened his eyes. “Hey, Google. Time?” “It’s nine-seventeen AM.” He couldn’t get up. He looked at the floor. His view was partly blocked by the grey bedsheet. He sighed as he got up again. He took the last sip. He sat as he looked at his reflection in the mirror. Then, he looked at the wine glass before it. Then, outside. A bird came and sat outside his window. He noticed her small feet grabbing hold onto the rail. He smiled.
He got out of bed. He walked to the mirror, slowly, and looked at himself. He smiled again. Disappointed. “It’s a new day, I guess,” he said out loud. He walked up to the window. The bird was still there. It stared inside his bedroom, turning its head like it was thinking hard about something. “Yeah, I know, I’ve been a mess, man. I’m getting there,” he said to the bird.
He sighed and walked to the other side of the bed. He picked the mug up, then he picked the book up, and kept them on the counter together. He picked the blanket up and spread it on the bed, slowly. He picked the coffee mug and the wine glass and walked to the kitchen.
Oh, go, leave me with this bird and his song. Out here in the cold. ‘Cause it’s just the bones you’re made of.
The song stopped playing.