Sunday Morning

Mornings here tend towards slow motion. They start late, despite the nearby construction (story of my life, literally) and the sky is nearly always grey and misty. We walk slowly around the apartment, fixing breakfast and eating it in comfortable, tired silence. Everything is a little heavier, requires a little more attention. Not, of course, because of hangovers, but rather due to exhaustion. I fold myself into one of the kitchen chairs and hunch over the first meal of the day, which, more often than not, is actually lunch. There is always water in the kettle on the stove, we just keep replacing it when it gets low, so there is always water when needed. Mornings like this always seem to come with two cups of tea. I always reuse the tea bag so the first one is always stronger than the second. When the kettle whistles it makes little hissing and spitting sounds like a steam iron, which blends fantastically into the symphony of the apartment settling. It always seems like more too much work to be worth it to unfurl my limbs, which always seem unusually long and stork-like, and propel myself the two steps to the stove-top and refill my mug with hot water.

This morning in particular I feel even more stagnant. Probably because I am sore. Probably because I worked out yesterday. My arms and neck and shoulders are sore, and my upper back and lats, also my throat. Though that may mean I am getting sick…