The Terror of Habit

Seven thirty in the morning; the moment I opened my eyes, I folded the blanket without thinking and went to wash my face. Something about my reflection looked off, and on closer inspection, the eyes I'd kept open all night were bloodshot and bluish. I opened the fridge to make coffee as usual, and my hand suddenly stopped. I'd said it flatly last evening. "Starting tomorrow, barley tea instead of coffee." Yet my hand was already reaching for the beans, and my eyes were looking elsewhere. In the end I made the coffee. The moment I caught the smell, I felt my shoulders loosen on their own, and a small pang of guilt came with it. "It's Saturday, so it's fine," I muttered to myself, and the morning sun came through the kitchen window and lit my face. Only then did I snap awake. Today was not Saturday but Friday. And what's wrong with a cup of coffee on a Friday morning? Still, why I'd been folding the blanket so reflexively, I don't know even now.