I woke up today an hour before my alarm. I usually do, but today it was almost exactly an hour.

I awoke to my usual thoughts: the day ahead and yesterday’s fumbles, knowing I could die suddenly because my valve will seal shut and rupture my heart, thinking about how warm my bed is. I listen to traffic drive by my streetside window; commuters an hour ahead of me, barreling towards the day.

I do not barrel; I have the alacrity of a sunbathing sloth.

I lay in bed and thought, “I want to make today worthwhile. Today could be my last day alive, so I should make it a good one.” I get out of bed at 7:30am or so. It only takes a half hour to fry two eggs and cook one cup of espresso on the stovetop, so the concept of morning rush is foreign to me as I prepare to catch the 8:07am bus that stops half a block from my house. My mornings are mechanically predictable; they have been for some time.

My espresso cooker bubbles, letting me know it’s ready. Two and a half heaping teaspoons of sugar thrown into my travel mug before I fill it so I don’t have to stir as much, some milk for color. I like black coffee, but this is the way I’ve made it since I was ten, so it’s force of habit as well as a need for sugar.

I see my landlord in the kitchen. He and his wife are getting their daughter ready for school. She has cerebral palsy, so her body is only nominally functional. This is a shame, because she’s at least as smart as an average eighteen year old. If she could speak, her life would be better.

They dress and feed her. Their morning revolves largely around this.

 

Their other healthy daughter enters the kitchen, wrapped in a blanket. She is normally asleep until noon, but she has to go to work today. “Oh, look who’s awake. I thought you never…uh…rose before the rays of the noonday sun…found you.” I say this, pausing to put the whole thought together. I felt forced to say something clever; I don’t like awkward silences, and I hoped I could make her laugh to start the morning.

Beat. “Yeah, well, I have to work today,” she replied a little too loud, like my delivery. A failure on two fronts.

I sip my espresso.

7:59am. Time to walk to the bus. I wait for my landlord, who is going slowly. We do not often walk together, but I wanted to today. He pauses in the house, slowly putting on his gloves. I wait, suddenly a little impatient. A few more moments and he at last comes to the door. I walk away. My steps are quick with youth. His are slow and tired.

I guess we aren’t walking together today.

We ride our bus into town, where I walk half a block to my transfer bus. I board it, but some things happen in the five minutes I must wait for it:

-I waited in the cold and watched people walk by. My landlord went inside to wait in the warmth. he catches a different bus than me.

-I saw a young man, probably a college freshman, waiting for the same bus I was. Our eyes met in a reflection on the bus’ window, and I mine flashed hostility. We looked away. Our eyes met again moments later, this time directly. We looked away again. Why the hostility, I wonder. We just looked at one another’s reflections and I gave him a death glare. I’ll still wonder why hours later.

-A homeless man chats with a bus driver. They seem like old friends.

-An attractive woman, our driver, walks with a spring her her step towards us. She has an emerald green travel mug, fat bottomed like a trapezoid. She’s thin and shapely, and has freckles that you can still see despite her chocolate skin. She’s always smiling.

-I remember I’m shy, and I look away.

 

On the bus, I decide what to do to make the day worthwhile. I’m going to commit. My days are often floating repeats of yesterday. Same music, same food, same times, same places. I don’t try too hard, because that would mean work. I don’t work too hard, because that might mean failure. Failure is embarrassing, and I don’t want to be embarrassed.

Today I will commit. I will do my job the best I can, I will write my feelings down, I will write my day, and I will publish them when I get home.

The bus ride is thirty minutes. I’ll have to wait to commit. Of all my thoughts, that is the most irritatingly well-worn.