The window holds a grey rectangle of almost-morning. Somewhere below, a bus changes gear. My coffee cools faster than I drink it, which is a fact about me rather than the coffee.
I have been awake since three, running the arithmetic of the sleepless — what I owe, what I have spent, what remains. By the time the city begins its day — bins rattling, a neighbour's alarm, the percussion of school runs — I am already two hours in, two hours ahead of a day I wasn't prepared for.
I pour the cold cup down the sink. I make another. Outside, the grey shifts, slowly, into something that almost resembles intention.