Morning Person

Same story, different day. If I don’t open my eyes it will just go away. The sunlight has crept around the edges of my blackout curtains again. Every night, I carefully examine the small gap where the curtain overlaps the frame of the window ever so slightly. If I arrange the pleats of the curtain just right, there will be no gap. I will not have to see the razor sharp edge of the morning sun—the cruel sun. If only there were dark clouds every day.

I am hiding my eyes behind the gossamer bed sheet, but I know it will not be effective. Only denial has kept the morning from filtering through my eyelids. Disappointment washes away any serotonin that was poised to elevate my mood. I can recall the feeling as I read: four-thousand thread count, highest quality Pima cotton, organic farm in Egypt. Oh, but truth in advertising died right alongside my dreams back in the 2000’s.

I was filled with such hope, a few weeks ago, when I saw the doorbell notification. A package had arrived a day early. An email graced my inbox with confirmation that yes, yes, yes, it was the sheets. My heart had lifted and I smiled broadly when the nearly indestructible packing tape finally surrendered. I pulled a muscle, with the ferocity I summoned, to tear the tape with my bare hands. Who can take time to find scissors when hope has finally arrived?

What lovely packaging. I pulled the fabric bag out of the box. There was a delicate tag of glossy thick card stock. The print quality was excellent. Oh, the luxurious softness of the fabric, my God it’s real. It even smells like a fresh morning in the cotton fields, the cool breeze rustling the impossibly fluffy bolls. A silky ribbon is threaded through a sturdy metal grommet at the corner of the tag. Is that real gold? Oh, don’t be silly, I say to myself, the sheets were only three-hundred dollars. The elegant ribbon flows gently through the channel of the well constructed bag, cinching it closed. It was the exact color I was hoping for. The threads of the bag were so dense that there was a sheen across the fabric. I so rarely indulged myself I promised myself to savor this moment.I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, unraveled the perfect bow, and freed the rare luxury item.

The memory is like an old wound, barking with pain as I lie in bed. I feel the texture of the sheet in my hands, like the cheap brown napkins from a fast-food restaurant. I fight back the tears now, like I did then, as I realized the color was not as the packaging suggested. My gut drops into a void, gaping like an open grave. The hungry darkness calls to me as I begin unfolding, pulling out chunks of thick cardboard. Ironically the packaging is of extremely high quality, four times thicker than I expected. Ah, and the fitted sheet wraps around a plank as well, the non-sheet waste adding over an inch to the thickness of the package. A material manifestation of the lie I was told.

The intensity of the light is ramping up relentlessly as the sun lifts higher over the horizon. I can see it in my mind’s eye, a yellow arc introducing itself to the pink sky. I’m suffocated by blazing despair. The light of the cruel morning, unhindered by the delicately pink fabric, constricts my pupils. My small bedroom is a formless collection of shadows when I lower the sheet.

Maybe the sky is the color of my sheets? That would be a bit of whimsy, wouldn’t it? I yank the curtain open and the sky is vibrant, the pink is the color of bubble gum, and not that cheap hard pink bubble gum but the strawberry gum I used to chew when I was in grade school. This beautiful pink will be gone too soon, like the flavor of the gum. A memory of the sweetness starts to tickle me, but the delight that was threatening to surface yields to disappointment when I turn to look in the mirror.

My saggy underwear hang low on my hips, a pale pink, a perfect match. Another luxury item I purchased bled, oh how they bled, a festive pair of red socks. Is the taint of the red better than the pale yellow they used to be? I recall that color, hinting at the accident I had last year. Drinking the twelve pack that had tranquilized me to the point of paralysis was not an accident. I can recall the feeling of relief as I succumbed to the urge in my dream. God, that feeling of relief.

The cold tile molesting my feet is an insult, but the release of pressure as I hover over the porcelain is an echo of the bliss of that dream. What a gift that something so simple and necessary can bring a hint of pleasure. I look down and I’m disappointed again. I’m not sure when the toilet was last cleaned, but the yellow residue is building up along the rim. Am I out of toilet cleaner? Maybe I can just use mouthwash. It has the same bluish hue and who will know? Both products promise to eliminate ninety-nine percent of bacteria. The viscosity of the toilet bowl cleaner may be the only difference between the two products. The thought of gargling with toilet cleaner disgusts me as I recall that it’s half the price of the alcohol-free mouthwash. The old yellow mouthwash was the color of the residue. My stomach rolls and salty saliva spills into my mouth as I recall the taste.

I rush into the kitchen and the pizza box from last night greets me from the counter. I lift the lid and mercifully there is one slice left. The salt of the room-temperature pepperoni overwhelms the nausea and I feel relief for the second time this morning. Maybe there is hope for the day. I look down at my smart watch and see that I’m up too early. I can get another hour of sleep if I zonk out quickly. There is an icon indicating the battery is low. Upon closer inspection I see that it is only twenty-six percent. I always charge the watch when I take a shower, so that’s a convincing indicator that I haven’t showered for at least three days. Maybe the battery is losing its capacity to recharge? No, with a sniff the former deduction has been confirmed.

The shower blooms when I twist the taps, first the hot on the left, then just a touch of the cold. I wince as a small splash of the still cold water hits my naked shoulder. I step gingerly over the end of my slippery tub and pull the curtain closed, the metal rings scraping like nails on a chalkboard. An intrusive thought torments me. People slip and hit their head in the tub every day and crack it open. They usually bleed to death alone.

Despondent again, I step back and hot water begins to cascade over my head. Eyes closed, I lean back and my ears are plugged momentarily, the rumble of the water drowns my thoughts. A vivid memory surfaces and I’m a little boy again. My grandma is giving me a bath in her blue porcelain tub in her blue tiled bathroom in the safety of the home I grew up in. She fills the massive margarine tub with hot water from the spout. She cups the back of my head gently and I recline. I close my eyes, trusting. The water cascades over my small head, plugging my ears. The hot water contrasting the cooling water of the tub gives me goosebumps, grandma pronounces it goozbumps with her persistent German accent. “You’ve got the goozbumps, do you want me to warm up the water?”

A peace settles over me. I snap back to the present when my arm brushes the cold water adhering to the plastic shower curtain, but a hint of a smile remains on my face. I inhale slowly and the steam threatens to displace too much oxygen, but the next breath brings cool fresh air. An early rise means a long shower.

I hear a small meow from behind the curtain and my smile grows. My little Sweetie is there, eager to jump in the tub when I’m finished. She will accept a quick pat, lower her head, and lap up a few drops of residual water. I love her and she loves me. Finally, a small miracle emerges. I have courage to face the day.

I made it to the coffee shop without incident. The traffic lights were merciful. My office chair is comfortable. My black coffee cooled to the perfect temperature. I take a sip with my eyes closed and relish the bitter taste. Jon from accounting creeps by, bedraggled. He pauses and looks at my coffee with a tinge of jealousy. My eyes are bright and the corners of my mouth hint at a humble smile. “You must be a morning person,” Jon says as he slinks away.