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: : : THE ALARM GOES OFF. Someone on NPR is reciting information about an explosion in Indonesia. Jakob frowns without opening his eyes. NPR always starts his day off with bad news but they have the clock-radio set to it anyway because neither of them want to run the risk of waking up to radio advertising. They'd rather hear about people getting blown up.
Freya grunts, which is the signal to Jakob that he needs to get up or hit the snooze button. He opts for getting up; finally opens his eyes. The room is dark. Fucking winter. Human beings shouldn't have to get up before the sun rises; they're not made for it.
He starts the coffee going. He'll only have a cup but Freya will drink the rest of the pot when she gets up. She gets to sleep for another hour; lucky. Of course he gets home an hour earlier so it evens out, maybe. Sort of. He showers and then has to wait for the mirror to clear before he can shave. Halfway through the act he starts to inspect his reflection and he goes into a kind of trance. Standing there with his face half-lathered and the razor inert in his hand. Tiny wrinkles around his eyes that he's never noticed before.
He goes back to the mirror later to double-check the knot in his tie, which looks unhappily fat and loose no matter how much he tightens it. He envies the sharply precise knots he sees in the ties of men on the subway sometimes—how the fuck do they do it? Is it because they have higher-quality ties? Or do they know about some secret knot that he never learned? He bangs his toe on the bathroom door on the way out, bites his lip to stifle a curse.
By this point it's begun to get light outside. He takes a peek at the snow, vaguely disappointed that it didn't all melt miraculously overnight. Long uneven tongues of ice coat the sidewalks between him and the subway station. Yesterday he slipped, came this close to falling on his ass, saved himself only by flailing his arms out; this makes him dread today's walk, when he may not be so lucky. He sips his coffee and bites into a banana. For a second he contemplates the fact that he can be eating a banana while peering out at grimy winterscape. The very fact.
He hears NPR start up again in the bedroom and he brings Freya her cup of coffee. This is their routine; this is the way it has evolved. She doesn't show any signs of being awake but he knows she is. He sets the coffee down on the side-table and leans in to give her a kiss.
—Mwah, she says, fuzzily, and then she begins to cough. Smoker's morning. When the fit subsides she hits Snooze. In nine minutes she'll get up and light a cigarette off the stove, but Jakob needs to be gone by then.
Keys, wallet. He finds his work ID in the hamper, still clipped to yesterday's shirt. Gets bundled in his coat and hat and gloves. Exhales to brace himself for the day. And goes.
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