He
opened his unwilling orbs with the usual difficulty, squinting hard and
blinking over and over, while a shaky hand fumbled with various objects piled up
on his bedside table, searching for the little lenses that would bring into
focus the world which seemed to be spinning in circles around him. When he finally found them, he took the
glasses from their place and made an effort to sit himself upright. He failed, unfortunately, and resolved to
slump back into his bed and stare at the ceiling, while he worked up the
fortitude to try, try again. As he
waited patiently for his aching heart to return to its regular rhythm, he made
the decision to place his glasses delicately onto his nose and push them up into
the groove they had made for themselves over the years. The white blur that was the ceiling now
revealed hundreds of swirling, plastered waves, breaking on the shores that
were his walls and scattering the light that poured in through his window on
every foamy peak. Or maybe it was just a
ceiling. But he was behind schedule, and
there was no time to deliberate the matter any further, so the man sat up,
successfully this time, and squinted as the sun's rays intruded through the
gaping gateway of glass that so warmly welcomed the new day. Note to
self, he thought. Close the blinds.
Now
fully awake, the man had little trouble hoisting himself onto his feet with
some help from his cane, which, fortunately, had not slid from its place,
propped up against the side of the bed, during the little tumble he took a few
moments before. Short, shuffling steps
to the thump, thump of the stick in his right hand eventually took him around
the bed and into the master bathroom. As
was his ritual every morning, the man left his faithful cane leaning against
the bathroom wall, trading it for the support of the ceramic counter top in
which the sink was embedded. Staring
into his own eyes, he saw that they looked remarkably similar to the way they
had the day before and the day before that one, and when he finally grew tired
of his own, wrinkled reflection, he took a few steps back and gave his feet a
short rest while he relieved himself.
Moments later, he scrambled back onto his feet, leaving his pants behind,
placed his glasses next to the sink, and stepped carefully into the shower,
making sure not to slip on the puddle left from yesterday.
Then
came the rain. This was his least
favorite part of every single morning to date.
Every day, he would spend at least ten minutes trying to find that magic
in-between: the temperature that was hot, but not scalding-- the temperature that
would warm his weary bones and soothe his achy joints without burning his
sensitive skin. It was a traumatizing
experience that he simply could not avoid without being rejected by the better
part of society, and, some days, he thought he would rather face that rejection
than the shower head. Tomorrow, he thought, I'll run a bath. He knew he wouldn't.
