sombre

angel's trumpet eulogies

6:57 AM — monday october 25th

i wake up and the clock says 6:57. not 7, never 7. just before. the light is thin, gray, it seeps in through the blinds like it's hesitant, like it doesn’t really want to touch me but it has to, so it just hovers, waiting. i sit up, the sheets heavy, stuck to my skin. i stare at the corner of the room, where the wallpaper peels a little at the edges. i swear it wasn't like that yesterday. but maybe it was. things are always like that, changing but staying the same.

i hear the kettle click. it’s 7:03. every day, exactly. i go to the kitchen, the tiles cold under my feet, and watch the steam curl up in lazy spirals, rising and dissolving, like they don’t want to be here either. i pour the water, watch it splash against the teabag, the color bleeding out, swirling in slow circles. i don’t drink tea, but i make it. i always make it.

the door creaks. just a little. it shouldn’t. i oiled the hinges last week. or maybe i didn’t. i open it, step outside, and the air feels wrong. not bad, just wrong, like it’s too thick or too thin, like it’s pretending to be air but isn’t really. there’s a man across the street. i don’t know him but he waves, like we’re old friends. i don’t wave back, just watch him, wondering if he’s real. wondering if i am.

i walk. the pavement shifts under my feet, not much, just enough to make me stumble, like it’s playing a game. the trees don’t look right. their branches twist in strange angles, leaves too green, like someone turned up the saturation. i stop, blink. they’re normal again. or close enough.

i reach the corner. the same bus passes by, every day, 7:45. always the same, always different. there’s a woman on the bus, looking out the window, her face pressed against the glass. she looks at me like she knows me, like she’s been watching me for years. i look away, but her reflection stays in the glass, watching.

i walk back. the door is still creaking. the kettle is still warm.