The New Routine

Eyes open as I stretch. My face is imprinted with sofa lines matching my suit. Shoes sticky, tie-soiled. The mini shredder bin next to the sofa is loaded with paper and a sickly spew. Standing brings on vertigo, so I sit down near a blanket speckled with what resembles the stuff in the bin. My stomach churns as I reach for the TV remote.

Hitting mute does nothing to stop 120-decibel EMS sirens blazing outside my home. I want to scream while covering my ears. Maybe that will cancel them out. A half glass of water on the coffee table reminds me my bladder is full. A slow rise to my feet keeps me stable for a cautious walk to the bathroom. The door ajar with lights on looks occupied but I push it open with legs crossed. No need to turn on running water for inspiration.

I disrobe and jump in the shower. Warm water soothes me until it grows cold with the valve fully open.

I brush my teeth to rid the taste of bile, but cleaning my tongue threatens to bring up more of the same. Rinsing is preferred along with a minty gargle. I take three aspirin from the cabinet and wash them down with a hand full of water.

Wrapping a towel around me, I stumble to the bedroom longing for the comfort of soft satin sheets but the cost of cleaning them turns me away. I put on a gray two-piece suit, white shirt, red power tie, and black Oxfords.  Moving towards the kitchen, I see the auto coffee maker has just brewed my favorite, perked, not drip. White bread sitting in the toaster looks hard. I press toast anyway to start my day. Careful not to burn the roof of my mouth, I sip the coffee without cream and nibble on hard-toasted bread without butter.

The newspaper is on the table where I left it. I saved the classified but tossed the coupons for Black Friday's bullshit sales. I circle the address of the job fair. Today’s the last day. Tomorrow is my second month without a job.

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