It was one of those mornings.
I went to bed late, woke up early.
It always gets stuffy in my room in the mornings for some reason; it must be the old carpet. You know, lots of people have allergies to those things, but miraculously, they still install them.
I picked up a book and decided to flip a few pages before I got carried away with my day. I always get distracted by other, less important activities. I popped the balcony door open; the fresh torrent of air filled the room. It wasn’t raining, but it felt like you were in the middle of an oak forest, standing on downed leaves. It’s probably the carpet.
It got cold fast. I don’t remember yesterday being that cold—this morning was exceptionally cold. The kettle. I hear the sound of steam whistling in the kitchen. Again, I got distracted by the book. How come some people only prefer hardcovers over soft jackets? Does it really matter if you’re going to crack the book open and devilishly flip through pages, leaving marks with your greasy fingertips? But you can’t beat that new smell of any book—that paper masked with the scent of ink. Damn, it feels like a victory and a journey waiting to happen just by flipping the covers.
The kettle is on the overrun, howling in the kitchen. I can smell the steam coming from it all the way to the bedroom. I probably should take care of that. Then what—coffee or tea? Who knows. I want to drink something fast and hot, but not boiling hot. Coffee it is. I got my designated vessel ready. Now the waiting game—let it brew.
Then I thought to myself, What did I do this morning? Because the clock already showed me almost breakfast time, but I still needed to finish reading that chapter—the book.
This is how my morning went: I literally picked up the book, and out of nowhere, I got suffocated and opened the balcony door wide open to realize that it got cold. So I went under my blanket for a split second, just to hear that angry whistle—again with this kettle. Is the coffee ready to drink? I always wonder about the science of brewing the perfect cup.
I need to move forward with my day now because I’m starting to get hungry. You know that feeling you get when something is shrinking inside you? That’s hunger. I bet my coffee is ready by now. I had a cup, I powered through hunger, I closed the balcony door—it got too cold—and, importantly, I finished that chapter. What’s next? Breakfast.
