Writing Practice, May 4 2015
Aine peered upwards, through her closed eyelids. She opened them slightly, saw sunlight, the long lines of daylight, and rocked to the side. Her eyes rested[Do eyes rest?] on the view of his night table. The alarm clock had dust on it; two months worth of real dedicated laziness on the cleaning front there. She hadn’t set it once, and she hadn’t turned on the radio. It just told the time, and it was beginning to get hard to read.
Next to the alarm clock was a cup of coffee, prepared the night before. Mostly empty, filmed-over and pale, Aine grabbed it and held it under her nose. Lies, she thought. This coffee was three nights old. Where was the coffee from the other night? Another cup sat behind the alarm clock. Aine inspected its contents. Instead of coffee it was gin. Or at least it smelled like gin. Moving both cups kicked up clots of dust from the nightstand counter. She coughed. She smacked her pillow. She was going to get up, and move, and remember what it is she was supposed to do that day. But then she did not, and the dust settled on the floor beside her.
Aine moved the cups to the floor. She’d pick them up if they were in her way. She’d learned that in a seminar. Not with cups, just anything you’d want to remember. “Put it in front of you,” the man with the microphone told her and two thousand other people. The man took his laptop out of his bag and put it in front of him on the stage. He took a few steps back and pretended to be an idiot. “I won’t step on this. That’d be crazy!” And then he stepped on it, and two thousand people laughed and groaned. “Well, maybe with some practice. It doesn’t come easy!” Aine felt practiced with this trick. She used it all the time. Her over the shoulder bag currently sat leaning against the door down the hall, filled with printed resumes. Her beautiful black flats kept it company. These things were ready for her on the day she decided to leave her apartment again.