Race

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I lifted my head from the pillow and squinted at the clock. It was time to get up. Five more minutes, I warned myself.

Twenty minutes later groggy and bleary, I sat up on my bum, my feet dangled over the bed. I yawned and then yawned longer and wider.

I’m not a morning person.

In fact, I’m not even a night person.

I’m a sleep person.

Wrap and seal me in a coffin and leave me alone; that’s what I’m talking about. And no need to dig me up, as I would still be sleeping. But, like three million others in Toronto, I am forced to go to work.

I rubbed my belly. It was soft and natural. I once dreamed of having six-pack abs. It turned into a nightmare when I realized I had to actually do something. I was able to manage a two-and-a-half-pack. No more than that.

I pulled myself up on my feet. I felt along the walls and found my oasis: the bathroom. I finished my task and then moved to the kitchen, following my morning routine. A sweet smell seeped into my nostrils. My state-of-the-art coffee maker had spurted the last drop twenty minutes ago.

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