I wake up.
The sheets are light; the pillow is hard, and you are soft in my arms, grumbling about my stubble and wishing I'd shave before bed. I turn off all four of our alarms (we are both OCD) and kiss you; we wake up.
I cut a fruit and leave the other half in the fridge; I get hungry. We go for a run, shower, and then have breakfast. You make fantastic coffee, but we barely have time to gulp it down. You drive me to work (you have a meeting) and I kiss you goodbye. You complain about smudging your makeup.
Work is work is work. I don't remember it as soon as I step out of the office, and start thinking entirely of you. I'll admit, I'm a little lonely - but you're all I need. And, as expected, you stand me up entirely, managing only to produce a "sorry - meeting overran - aaargh" for the light of your life, flame of your desire, vanquisher of insects. I drink coffee and read the novel I prepared in our favourite sandwich shop while I plot revenge.
I decide to go with the pouty child routine, and perform it summarily to the best of my performance skills (I actually don't need to act too much). You're even a little late. At least, until I open the door - a brown bag, the familiar logo, and inside (yes!) are muffins. They ran out of chocolates, as usual, but all is forgiven, the world is light again, and you wisely do not comment on my expanding waistline. I give you a little twirl in the lift; you finally laugh out loud, and we swing and step until we realize our neighbour, back from a jog, is goggling. We start giggling, like schoolchildren, once we get in our door.
You’ve still got some ends to tie up, so I shower first. Then you shower, and the house is dead silent except for the sound of running water. Your career wouldn’t be able to take the blow, and I would like to love you a little longer; but it is in these quiet times that I realize I am lonely in the world, if not for you. I can wait; it’s not always rainbows and butterflies.
We go to bed ridiculously early – work is exhausting, even for me – and you snore off first, hair everywhere, no makeup, totally unglam and absolutely beautiful. Trying not to wake you where you lie (inconveniently all over my left arm) I contort and wriggle and twist and finally get my writing pad from the bedside table.
It’s dark, it’s quiet. And I write.
Where I'd probably be, in 10 years
The alarm goes off at nine-thirty – I turn it off, not having learnt to snooze. Fifteen minutes later another one comes on, more emphatically, and I mumble myself out of bed, shower, and pointedly not bother to shave.
I grab breakfast at the cafetaria, as always, and stroll to the office. I am too late, though, and my stomach grumbles throughout the morning meeting. I finally get to my lukewarm coffee and soggy croissant back at my desk, waffling about on Facebook. My friends have found careers, families, and life; I guess I’ve found that I am an academic genius.
Work starts, and mind-numbingly hurtles past to three. I stagger, starved, halfway to the cafeteria before my phone starts singing – I don’t recognize the ringtone for a while – and I dash back for a consultation with a student. By the time I get back all the food is gone; I contend myself with the energy bars I keep for an emergency and order pizza.
I get to it around seven thirty in the evening and curse the malfunctioning microwave. I go to the rooftop (my lab has no window; the sky is alarmingly dark) and try to remember the astronomy class I took years ago.
I realize it’s two-thirty – but my work isn’t done. Mournfully, almost regretfully, I pause in my work and shuffle back to my rooms (more accurately, room). The lights are off, but it’s a path I’ve taken for four years now, and more to come; I know it well. Somebody’s left a note on my door – safety meeting tomorrow, aaargh – and I toss the only message I’ve had all day down the corridor.
It is exactly as I left it, and I fit perfectly into the hole between blanket and bed. I live vicariously on facebook until my eyes water; then I close the lid, rest my thick glasses atop, and try not to think of you. I fail, and scrabble instead for some salvation, some reprieve from my life.
It’s dark. It’s quiet. And I write.
Where I wouldn’t mind being in 10 years
You slap me hard. I yell, surprised, see you, and lay back in bed; you smack me again, harder, and swear.
And so I get up. You’re in your vest and suit, all sleek lines and well-cut fabric, giving me a dirty look. I quickly perform my toilet and come out. We eat breakfast and fight over the papers, and argue about some stupid thing some more. You go off to work (“No, you’ll be late; I’ll cycle”) and I shower, change, and message you thanks for waking me. You don’t reply, probably already delivering sweet agony to your patient.
I always feel mildly self-conscious in my biking gear, but the students think I’m nuts, anyway. I speed past them, past the few making the long hike to school; I remember taking the path every day for two years while I attended; now, everybody takes the MRT because they’re lazy to walk.
I wheel past the security guards with a wave, and they wave back. I pump the pedals quickly, out of the way of parents’ cars, and to the sports complex. Quick shower, change, damnIforgottherazoragain, and I’m clean and ready for a new day, if mildly unshaven.
I saunter to assembly after the anthem. The class rept gives me a reproachful look and reports attendance. I wish everybody a good day (one of the reasons they know I’m insane) and saunter to the office.
I sit in on another’s lecture (god he’s boring, I should probably revise this in class just in case) and then head off for labwork. Somehow somebody manages to start a fire; I heroically turn off the gas tap, give him a strict reprimand, and close out the class without any further disaster.
Back in the office, my old biology teacher gives me a scolding while she treats the burn (of course I had to pretend to be unscathed). Her hair is turning grey and she’s considering retirement; but the way she talks to me is as if nothing’s changed for ten years and she’s still my teacher. The other chemistry teachers walk by, askk what happened, and laugh; the Econs teacher gives me an upraised eyebrow as she passes.
I realise I have to file a report, so I go downstairs for a quick bite. Argh, fifteen years and the canteen food is still terrible; I think the man is still selling that same piece of chicken I saw when I was a student. The auntie gives me my cuppa before I even open my mouth; I think I need to drink less.
The nice English teacher makes some excuse to drop by my desk; I show her my battle wounds, bask in her sympathy, and shoo her away to finish the report.
Class with the genius class. I give a fairly good account of myself and manage to answer the resident genius’ queries (the fool, he asked about my honours year project! ha, you can’t stump me that easily!) and make an appointment with the weaker students for make-up. I spot a languid, disinterested youth in the corner - I see myself in every batch of students I take - and make a note to talk to him before he spirals off into depression.
Class is over before I know it, and my stomach growls. I beggar some food off the stranger in the pantry, and hustle into my tracksuit. I yell and coax and order and manage the frisbee team into submission, play a few points, and then retire wheezing back to my office. I grab my bike, wheel to the nearby shopping mall for dinner and some flowers, and back; I take a quick shower and find myself in the same cubicle as the morning, and see my razor lying there forlornly.
Damn.
I bring dinner down to the auditorium; rehearsal’s going on. I share it with English while her charges gossip in the curtains. Dinner complete, she beams sweetly, then turns into a crazy harridan again. The second night of the performance, you’d think she had calmed down.
I sit in the front row setting questions until an usher informs me I need to leave the auditorium so they can start seating the audience - of which I am one. I try to talk my way out of it until I realise it is the class rept, at which point I simply give up and wait outside.
Econs comes by after Strings; her class rept is the male lead. My own gives me another dirty, disappointed look as she admits us - what is up with that woman!? We sit in between some girls in shorts and PE shirts and some other overdressed girls; I wish I’d brought my jacket. Halfway through I realise I forgot the flowers, and dash off during the interval to get them.
I’m late, and Econs is waiting outside for me, mocking smile and upraised eyebrow. I pluck her the flower from the centre of the bouquet (“Thanks for the sincerity,” drily and droll, like her expression) and we are denied entry by my class rept. I have no luck with women, not even my seventeen year old valedictorian student. We watch the rest of it from the AV equipment room with some gossiping IT club boys.
I deliver the flowers to English; she thanks me and suggests I go home first before turning around and haranguing the backstage crew for cleanup. I hadn’t intended on waiting, but am saved the experience.
Econs refuses to let me send her home. I didn’t offer it, either, but her declaration makes me think. Her intriguing sarcasm makes me think. Instead I walk her into a cab (after, of course, offering a ride on the bicycle, to which she responded with a prime selection fo barbs).
I can’t be arsed to cycle home, and simply hail a cab too. I pass English, flowers in hand, waiting for a cab as well; she doesn’t see me, and I wonder why I didn’t stop for her. I get home and realise I left my sweaty clothes in school - damn it! -and then you come home and I realise it’s later than I imagined.
We decide to sit and watch half a movie while you grumble about colleagues who can’t drink like you can; then you’re too tired and I’m not even watching it. I can’t keep up with the drama of the depressed doctor; I have the drama of a depressed teacher to deal with. You glide back into your room without even an insouciant good night; I wish we could be better friends but our worlds have drifted apart since army. There is unresolved tension in me, a feeling that more could’ve been done, but the moment was lost. I cannot get to sleep.
It’s dark. It’s quiet. And I write.
