A door closes and it’s 8 o’ clock. It is unclear which fact informs the other, but I suppose that’s the nature of routine. Obscurity emerging from the rib of habit. A light breeze blows through the diaphanous sheers turned grey from overuse. Yet as they move in slow inhales and exhales against the windows, it seems they’d existed so since time immemorial.
I’ve only just awoken, perhaps disturbed by the raucous noise that follows in the absence of sound. It’s the kind of silence that only comes in solitude, like watching a leaky faucet finally tire, or hearing the last guest depart from the drive way. Things unthought are suddenly thought, returning awkwardly as though forgetting a set of keys.
The tiles feel cold against my feet that walk, timid and cautious, over abandoned crayons littered across the hallway.
The light in the bathroom has been left on. The mirror is glazed in a coat of perspiration, the floor covered with puddles. Tiny hairs lay scattered in the sink, not far from white stains defying an attempt to be washed away. The culprit, a red toothbrush with bristles all bent out of shape rests in a porcelain cup, close to mine but not quite touching.
I stare at a stubborn bubble still ballooning over the soap bar. A spectrum of colors swirls within the contained chaos of the dome. Beads of moisture begin to drip down the mirror with the confidence of a skilled topographer drawing rivers on a map. Beyond them I stand. An apparition growing more lucid with every passing moment. I stare at the figure before me, suddenly so old and aware of time in all its glorious scope of the past, present, and future. ‘What will I do today?’ I wonder.
A strident smell of aftershave mixed with Shea butter hangs in the humidity. A mountain of clothes and towels lays discarded, clumsy and damp in the corner. And I think, ‘how did the pile of laundry get so big?’
*This piece was featured in issue two of Maker’s Movement, a Canada-based bi-annual creative magazine.