He pours himself a fresh cup of coffee as black as the morning sky. It’s still early enough to be last night but not quite yet today. He imagines a curtain dropped between acts in a play. When the veil is lifted, things will be different.
The birds aren’t awake. Their first song will come an hour after his first sentence is written and he’s looking forward to it. The birds are never sad.
He slurps from a stolen mug. The first sip is always the best.
First sip. First sentence. First song.
First day of the rest of his life. Blah, blah, blah.
He opens a stolen laptop.
He’s wearing stolen pants.
First . . . lines. With an index finger, he carefully tap,tap, taps on a little plastic baggy of booger sugar. A generous amount into each tabatiere (the only French he knows beyond the kiss). His right and left anatomical snuffboxes are extra sharp and bony these days. They hold the powder well.
What will he say?
What can he say?
He sighs. Can’t unscramble an egg.
Acknowledging the truth but hating the cliche, he waits.
Heart drumming with a punk thrash gallop.
Start with the heart. Tell it. One sentence at a time.
“I’m missing you extra much this mourning.”
A typo. No.
More like a Freudian slip of the finger. The Word document editor warns of a “Possible Word Choice Error” underlining the last one in blue.
BLUE. How apropos!
He laughs until he cries.
There’s no “u” in morning.
There’s no YOU.