A Morning in Montreal

His jaw cracked as he yawned, sitting down to write in the very early morning, sleep still making his eyelids heavy with fatigue. He took off his glasses and rubbed at his tired eyes with his thumbs, clearing his vision a little and waking him ever so slightly more awake. He scratched at an itchy ear and wondered about his sanity, choosing to wake up early to write, rather than hit the snooze button a couple more times.

He yawned again. The roommate came out of her room. They exchanged morning greetings. She set to making her breakfast, and he kept on writing. It was nice having a human presence in the apartment other than his own, he thought.

Funny how morning brings itchiness, he thought as he rubbed one foot against the other, scratching with the callused heel. Like your skin wakes up slower than the rest of you. He yawned again, a sure sign of fatigue. He blinked away tears of exhaustion, struggling to find the words to keep on writing.

He leaned back, crossing his arms and rereading what he had been writing. Not the highest prose, but not bad. He kept writing, straightening his back now as he became ever more awake, his mind finally able to string sentences that made sense together, rather than piecemeal a word at a time near nonsense.

He pulled the chair forward, nearer the desk. A hiccough escaped him. He reached up and scratched his hair. The roommate, ready to go, stopped and wished him a good day, a sentiment he returned with affection. His stomach growled and grumbled, and he promised it toast in a few minutes.

He checked his word count. A bad habit from the National Novel Writing Month contest, when quantity is one of the most important things. Some would say it was THE most important thing, but he had gotten over that now. His first year it had been more important than plot. His second year it had been more important than proper spelling. Having proven himself twice, it was much less an issue now. This year his focus would be producing a marketable product. Fifty thousand words, at least, but publishable words, good words. Accidental quality was no longer acceptable.

He scratched at his other ear. His body was making morning demands of him, demands he didn't have time to address if he was going to finish what he set out to write. Fifteen minutes, it seemed, wouldn't be enough in the mornings. Word count again. Almost there.

He sniffed and moved his head around, crick-cracking his neck joints. There wouldn't be time tonight to write. Tomorrow he'd have to get up earlier. For today, however, he was almost done. A shower and a shave would make him feel fully human again. Toast would appease the angry beast rumbling inside him. Then to work, to earn a meagre existence.

Outside the big bay window, sunlight finally painted the grey morning in bright autumn colours.

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