The only sound I hear is the faint ticking of the clock, telling me that this moment is still bound to time, but I don’t believe it. I must have been asleep, but everything is still the same: My glasses are still beside me, somewhere (I hope). My head is on my wife’s leg, and the room is perfectly still, as if nothing had ever moved here, ever. The sun is still throwing shapes on the wall, lines and angles and what’s that called—maybe a trapezoid?
I think that must be it, but I don’t mind if it isn’t. I don’t mind anything, right now, not the phone calls that need to be made or the emails that need to be answered or the car that needs to be washed or the what was it I was thinking I had to put on the list? Oh yes, I remember—not that either.
It’s a day off. A whole, entire, glorious day. The clock tells me that a day has boundaries, but I don’t believe it.