What was it you wanted? Could it be I'm haunted?
The girl's one cup of coffee into what looks to be a three-cup morning.
Even through closed blinds, the grey light seeping through the cracks speaks of rain to come, and she makes a mental note while swigging back the dregs in her cup to go check that her umbrella is still where she left it. One never knows with siblings like hers.
The music playing in the background is something she's put on as white noise to fill the silence of an empty house. The sweats she's in are converted sleepwear. The faded-bruise purple rings beneath her eyes are less prominent than they've been in a long while. The stray tendrils of hair she keeps tucking behind her ears are the result of a haircut a couple days ago that she's still getting used to.
It is Monday, just after nine in the a.m., and this is Percy.
She stretches her arms upward, lacing her fingers together and pushing towards the sky. The sound of joints cracking and muscles popping is for that brief second a little louder than the music. It is a grey day, a lazy day, and despite the casual demeanour Percy finds herself suspicious of this. An instinct she's suspected of verging on reptilian lately screams for a to-do list, tasks to accomplish, an order for the day.
She has none. There's only that faint grey light peeking through the ridges of her closed blinds, the now-empty cup of coffee at her right hand, and the music in the background. Perhaps the suspicion stems from how satisfying it is to simply take a morning slowly for once, instead of the heavilly regimented routine she normally follows: fifteen minutes for a shower, fifteen minutes for breakfast, and fifteen more to primp and be out the door. This works like a charm on weekdays and workdays, but today is neither. It is a breathing-day, a self-day. It is the beginning of a week that is intended to serve as a chance to center, refocus, and plan before she puts on the mantle of teacher again and launches into teaching full-time.
The thought puts her on edge. She should be planning. She should be looking at resources. She should be tinkering with units. She should be writing a to-do list for the day.
No, Percy tells herself. Not now.
She will not have this sort of space again until she completes her practicum. She will work, she will get things done, but this week above all needs to be a chance to center, to breathe, to be.
She toddles upstairs and refills her mug, inhaling the steam as she returns to her room. She looks over to the stack of paperback novels on her desk -- overflow from her cramped bookcases -- and smiles as she selects one. A grey day, a cup of hot coffee, a book. Seems a decent enough way to spend a morning to her.
Even through closed blinds, the grey light seeping through the cracks speaks of rain to come, and she makes a mental note while swigging back the dregs in her cup to go check that her umbrella is still where she left it. One never knows with siblings like hers.
The music playing in the background is something she's put on as white noise to fill the silence of an empty house. The sweats she's in are converted sleepwear. The faded-bruise purple rings beneath her eyes are less prominent than they've been in a long while. The stray tendrils of hair she keeps tucking behind her ears are the result of a haircut a couple days ago that she's still getting used to.
It is Monday, just after nine in the a.m., and this is Percy.
She stretches her arms upward, lacing her fingers together and pushing towards the sky. The sound of joints cracking and muscles popping is for that brief second a little louder than the music. It is a grey day, a lazy day, and despite the casual demeanour Percy finds herself suspicious of this. An instinct she's suspected of verging on reptilian lately screams for a to-do list, tasks to accomplish, an order for the day.
She has none. There's only that faint grey light peeking through the ridges of her closed blinds, the now-empty cup of coffee at her right hand, and the music in the background. Perhaps the suspicion stems from how satisfying it is to simply take a morning slowly for once, instead of the heavilly regimented routine she normally follows: fifteen minutes for a shower, fifteen minutes for breakfast, and fifteen more to primp and be out the door. This works like a charm on weekdays and workdays, but today is neither. It is a breathing-day, a self-day. It is the beginning of a week that is intended to serve as a chance to center, refocus, and plan before she puts on the mantle of teacher again and launches into teaching full-time.
The thought puts her on edge. She should be planning. She should be looking at resources. She should be tinkering with units. She should be writing a to-do list for the day.
No, Percy tells herself. Not now.
She will not have this sort of space again until she completes her practicum. She will work, she will get things done, but this week above all needs to be a chance to center, to breathe, to be.
She toddles upstairs and refills her mug, inhaling the steam as she returns to her room. She looks over to the stack of paperback novels on her desk -- overflow from her cramped bookcases -- and smiles as she selects one. A grey day, a cup of hot coffee, a book. Seems a decent enough way to spend a morning to her.