Morning

You woke with the light of the sun splitting her blinds apart. The mornings had been getting warmer and quicker to come than the winter, and you were slightly worried that this would mean that you'd be lucky to find the time to continue with dreaming. Last night's ideas and thoughts come flooding back into your head and suddenly you're awake, trying to claw back at the sleep that's flowing away like sand through fingers.

The alarm clock is still waiting to go off. This pre-alarm waking happens regularly.

You decide to wait. Sure enough the alarm will go off, and then you'll have to get up, but you are already awake and your mind is ticking over and over. There's a feeling that your dream was both really great but scary at the same time. Slowly, parts of the beige filled cinema reel fall into place and three events are remembered, though the order is jumbled.

A train, four children, and a microwave. No more information can be gleened from the dream, so you give up. The alarm patiently waits. Minutes left now, you suppose. You glance over to the window to see if there is anything more to be assumed about the day from the sliver of sky seen through the blinds but there is none, only the slightly contrasting look of bright sunlight and dark sky. You let out a slight moan, a whimper, and strech upon the bed still inside the warm duvet that you sleep in. Your toes wander onto a cold part of the bed and recoil in fright.

That's the bit of the bed I used to sleep in, you are thinking. The previous nights phone calls are still in your call history, but the contents forgotten for now, and even as you lie there in a relaxed state, the alarm is still waiting. For the next few moments there is an air of expectancy in the room and giving in, you go to check your phone. There are no missed calls from me, not even a text message. The vacant part of your bed that you so religiously taught your self to avoid during the night is wasted space without me in it. It won't take long for you to reclaimed it.

The alarm breathes in, and then shrilly goes off. You jump up, grab at it, first placing it on snooze as an automatic reaction, and then turning it off as you remember you've been awake for minutes already. Another glance at the desolate looking phone screen and I've still not contacted. You feel misery and shame and worry, and your axious face cannot be seen by anyone but still is painted on it.

You get out of bed and remember the last thing I said to you. "I've just about had enough" and you start to take apart the phrase. "just about" implies hope, you think, that maybe I was being rash, but at the same time also implies exasperation. The "enough" part is the sucker punch, and saying that just as I left was dramatic effect used perfectly. I intended it that way, our invisible audience hanging on every syllable I utter.

You leave your room and walk to the kitchen. Without my tea making you're left to fend for yourself. The kettle is popped on and you rummage for a teabag. It's boiling slowly, slower than the alarm clock took to sound. You move into the front and there I am, sleeping on the couch. I came back, or I never left. You stand there, confused. I stir as the kettle grows louder. I look up and in my haze I look at you and say "Morning."

The kettle clicks off and calms down. I look you up and down. You are still looking at me. There's a silence thicker than smog.

You then say: "Morning".