I got up early, as always. My feet crumpled on the linoleum floor, each step making a peeling sound. It was the only noise in the flat until I got to the fridge. Following the rubber-suck crack of the fridge opening I let out a small grunt as I ducked into the chilled light to see what I might have for breakfast. I wasn't hungry, but this was seven am and I had to get to work. The only thing I fancied was eggs, but the way I wanted to cook them I didn't have time for. I gently closed the door, noticing the light blink out a few millimetres before the door hit the rubber seal again. I rested my head against the top door, opened the larger door again, just to see the moment where the light went out. I moved it back and forth a few times watching the light on-and-off, on-and-off. I could feel my eyebrows on the white metal holding my eyes too wide open - holding my brain awake.
I whispered to myself in a grazing, sarcastic moan letting the vowels run on a little too long.
'Fuck me. Fuck me. Time to watch a light go on and off, but no time to cook eggs. A light show's not going to fill me, is it?'
I liked it though - my voice felt real deep, a bit grave. I hummed a stony tune as my feet peeled back, to the bathroom. The first twinge of shit was coming, but I decided to clench it while I brushed my teeth - prime it for a quicker launch. When I sat down I picked up a newspaper from the rack, but didn't read it. The picture on the front reminded me of something, but I don't know why - I'd never be able to stand up in a court of law and tell you what the image was. It didn't matter anyway.
I got to pondering how it used to feel when there was a ghost in the same room - that jugular dizziness that I used to get. Never scared me particularly and it's strange how that strange thing has gone away.
My wife edged the door open and whispered, different from my whisper, feminine and stuffed with merry urgency. Obviously her sleep had been swilling something she wanted to say.
'I forgot to tell you...'
She continued, but my mind drifted back, to a stately home in England me and friend once visited. I was about twenty and we went into a room with a ridiculously corpulent four-postered bed with an ancient maroon cover, about half-an-inch thick. I'd felt the ghostly light-headedness back in that room and told my friend about it. We were not yet twenty and I wouldn't mention such a thing to anyone anymore. At that age my friend had taken it all in. I didn't know then that such things would one day meet with smart cynicism, but they do, and so I don't mention those things anymore. Except when I'm drunk and my mind thinks it's nineteen again.
'Oy! Oy! Are you listening at all?' my wife was rasping.
'Oh - sorry, yes, of course I am.'
'What did I say then?'
My radar had picked up a few bits of her monologue outside what I was thinking - the usual married defence mechanism of hearing just enough to fake attentiveness.
'You were telling me what your mum said.'
Before she could pursue it I asked:
'Would you be able to rustle up some scrambled eggs in the time it takes me to have a shower sweetie?'
'Yes. Okay - you cheeky sod.'
As she walked over to the kitchen, her feet clacking off the lino like mine had, I let out the family's first non-whisper of the day:
'Can I get a nice coffee too please?'
