Percolate

Colin Rosychuk

Sunup. I see the busybodies bustling as they bristle about their respective menialities. Morning frost batters my lashes and I blink away the bleariness that predates a cup of coffee. We are not quite here yet, but sleep is by now a distant memory, my bed a relic of better times.

We are not quite here yet, nor are we entirely there. The minutes blur to a dull fuzz, events merging with their neighbours until I’m hardly sure they happen at all. Don’t they? It’s early yet.

It’s early, yet... this morning drags on beyond any reasonable scope. When am I? An alarm sounds.

»Hello? Who is it?»

If it is Death, tell her I am not in.