Clockwork

Every morning, the same routine. He had become used to it and was usually prepared.
He slowly rolled to a sitting position on the edge of his make-shift bed and blinking the sleep out of his eyes as he slapped his alarm for the fourth time. His eyes flew open, "fourth! Another late morning!"

Out of bed, rummage through the basket of laundry for a set of work clothes and shake out the wrinkles as best he can, a bit of water will help that later. Dress with eyes nearly closed. Keys, lighter, pocket pen, knife, shirt pen, wallet - no, wallet is still downstairs. Yesterday's socks should still work, shoes, down to finish getting ready for work.

The water runs noisily as he brushes his teeth, same pattern, same routine, just later than usual. The his teeth clench as the cold water splashes over his face and hair. He slowly lowers the towel from his face and looks into his own eyes in the mirror. Gray today.


Stopping suddenly as he turns to leave, he bends over and wretches over the porcelain bowl as he feels the muscles in his stomach contract violently. There's nothing but bile, just stop already.


Three minutes later, face still damp from the second meeting with the towel that morning, he backs out of the driveway. 7:49, I can still make it.

Slowly sitting down at his desk, he shakes the dizziness from his head, and unwraps a peppermint to settle his disgruntled insides. 8:01, and I'm still the first here, hmmm, not bad for 2 hours of sleep. What do you say we keep this one between you and me Medusa? 


Let's have some coffee.