Dream
I raise my head and blink at the alarm clock.
It probably says 6:02 because the song on the radio gradually wound its way into my dream and pulled me out. If the day seems unlikely to be particularly pleasant, I swear at it, quietly so as not to wake my family.
I get out of bed.
I rarely have the time or energy to make it properly, but I try to leave my red and gold comforter the way a civilized person would.
I walk across the room to my alarm clock.
The house is frigid. I shiver and fantasize about the leather coat hanging in the closet.
I look in on my snake. I hit the button on top of the clock-radio, almost always harder than I really need to.
I leave the room, carefully skirting the sousaphone lying in the middle of the floor.
I try to get across the hall and down sixteen steps with a minimum of creaking and thumping.
I eat one chocolate muffin.
I read the paper.
I put on jeans and a shirt.
I listen to the dog bark at my father returning from his bike ride as if he's an ax murderer come to kill us all.
Then I brush my teeth and hair and leave for school.