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Early Saturday Morning In A Strange House

My sleep schedule usually has me going to sleep at 7:30am, not waking up. This morning I awoke and the house was empty. As someone who is used to an apartment the size of a postage stamp, it was a bit daunting. The ice cold floor sent chills from my bare feet up into my spine. I closed a bathroom window which let the 41 degree temperature creep inside the house. I have only the summer clothes I packed, so many weeks ago and that concerned me. With nothing large enough to fit me, I slipped a tiny blue blanket around my shoulders and made coffee. A pair of socks was added to the ensemble, but warmth was not joining in. A bagel, toasted and sips of coffee slowly warmed me slightly, but as I stepped onto the floor once again, I was again reminded the odd chill on a normally tepid September morning.

I wash dishes and ran and jumped back into bed, Warmed up enough to venture out for a rare television flip through. I settled on English futbol and drank my the rest of my now cold coffee. I thought about what I would do at home, huddled under a comforter, the warmth oozes up from the floor and droplets of sweat beading on my brow. A shower fogging up everything and back into bed. Staring at my phone, but nobody calls, texts or writes. I'd stare at the cracks, with anger boiling inside, until finally I'd flee. Off to nowhere or anywhere. Searching for an escape, many times alone anyway, but with a draft or a bottle, eventually finding conversation with some poor victim.

Tick-Tock, the clock with the birds clicks with every second. One-two-three seconds closer to death or something simpler, say lunch. The time goes by so slowly in the morning and so quickly at night. Why is time so unfair. Waiting in a doctor's office makes a mere five minutes of our existence seem like hours, but the hot steamy embrace of a lover, makes those same five minutes flash by like seconds? Why are there no calls interrupting us during work, but they cause the steam to disappear from a dinner for two? My mind wanders from the time ticking to the mistake I made. Reminded constantly, but why should I be upset. My mistake made other people's lives better. Isn't that what it is all about? Isn't it?

A car door slams and I am soon no longer alone and I creep back to the room and slide under the covers, the blue blanket has gone back to it's place. No longer needed as heat pumps through the pipes. I'm away from the dungeon of home, but find the cracks are replaced with the buzzing little fly, trapped between the window and the screen. I let him go and wait for someone to open my window and let me out. It's not to be and I imagine what the spider is thinking as he stares down at my world, then goes about his day. 

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