Hey there, you’ve reached Katharine Henry’s residence. To your dismay I’m out or unable to come to the phone. Leave your name and number and I’ll call you back whenever possible. Thanks.
Oddly enough there isn’t a message and instead, the awkward shuffle and caluk of a phone hitting its receiver. I curse myself for rolling over to check my messages this early on a weekend. I guess it’s good that I did though because it’s got me moving a bit. Saturday mornings always induce a little panic in me—my stomach sloshes and tumbles around, apprehensive with the thought that the weekend is already slipping away as I lie in bed. The dim aluminum-grey light filters in through the rolled up foot of white Venetian blind over my apartment’s large window. The rain of last night has stopped, perhaps only a few minutes ago—it’s resting. The roads outside echo with the sounds of gulls and other city birds, bleating at each other over crumby wrappers and bits of soggy toast from the dumpsters. They’re not complaining though. Aside from the hustled squawks and caws, the streets are pretty silent, and 7:00 flashes a wounded red on my alarm radio. Having not set it and already feeling ineptly awake, I swing my legs over the edge of my bed. They bend at the contact with the hardwood floor, phone cord lying stupidly across my lap. Everything hurts. I consider a jog but my small intestine squelches the idea and instead I opt for a shower and then coffee at Horoscope.
There’s ringing in my ears.
In the shower. Warm water from the rusted showerhead drizzles over the knots of my spine. The lull of the water hitting the porcelain in the tub tempts me to sleep, it tells me that I should just return to my bed and let the headache figure itself out amongst the mess of pillows and woven blankets. I resist with thoughts of caffeinated goodness.
The walk to Horoscope is mildly refreshing: irriguous air clinging to the brick facades of the buildings on South Granville and to my skin, fogging up my glasses. When I get there though, Horoscope’s unassuming windows are dark and I panic thinking that they’re closed and that my excursion is in vain. I actually wrenched myself from the cool bliss of my bed, from the indecision and procrastination of a Saturday AM at home for this? How dare…
…the fog on their inner windows suggests coffee is being brewed.