The Weight of Morning

To you, When I open my eyes in the morning, the phone comes first. I stretch just my arm out from under the covers, skim last night's world, and draw my hand back in. The hand is somehow a little heavier. Making coffee, I look out the living room window. I mean to check the weather, whether the wind is blowing, what the clouds are doing, but what I see is a soup stain from yesterday on the glass right in front of me. I should wipe it, I think, and only turn on the tap. The water is louder than expected. Waiting for the bus on the way to work, I suddenly notice the coffee in my hand is hot. I'm fairly sure I was drinking iced americanos this time last year, but this morning my hands are unusually cold. I wrap both hands around the cup. Waiting for the bus with one hand, warming the coffee with two: that is the whole of this morning.