The Morning's Witness

She woke thirty minutes before the alarm. Light through the gap in the curtains drew a thin line on the floor. The house was still quiet, and outside, birdsong came now and then. Outside the covers it was colder than expected. Holding her breath, she dashed to the bathroom and back. The face in the mirror still looked half asleep. She ran the water and washed her face, and drying her hands, she suddenly noticed there was no smell of coffee. Which meant no one else was up yet. Heading back to bed, her feet were cold. Only one of the socks she'd taken off last night was in sight. The other was nowhere. She started to look under the bed, gave up, and what she found in the end was a sock of a different color. After a moment's hesitation, she put it on. No one was watching. Mismatched, but warm once on. But just then, she heard the cat's footsteps in the kitchen. She slowly turned her head. The cat was looking at her as if it were nothing at all. Ah. A witness. Under the covers the warmth came back. A slightly crooked start, but she thought it was all right. She closed her eyes and smiled a little. Waking early today had been worth it. The birdsong sounds a little louder now.