Tomorrow

Wake up. Wonder why every time you wake up, your first thought is No. Stare bleary eyed and head swimming at the fuzzy characters on your iPhone. Struggle to discern the difference between tap to snooze and swipe to stop alarm. Inevitably choose the wrong one. Grumble a few choice four-letter words.

Fuck. Shit. Piss. 

Visualize the iPhone screen shattering as you hurl it against one of four shallow walls. Try to smile. Drag your lifeless body out of bed and wander groggy through the icy hallway, crying Brrr just like Gucci Mane does. Try to make someone else smile. Watch your humor fall on deaf ears. Die a little inside.

Turn the key, and a take a drive. Sputter as your chest tightens with every passing white line on the highway. Park as far away from the building entrance as possible — maybe even walk to the far entrance.

Hold your breath as you scale the neck-breaking precipice between the lobby and the office. Listen as the words that Felix spits at you ricochet off your face and tumble headlong around the room. Suppress the urge to daydream about bitch slapping Felix, or waterboarding Felix in the communal bathroom toilet, or strangling Felix with his own tie until he’s a swollen blueberry. Suppress this urge because the therapist’s eyes darted to the door, just for a fraction of a second, when you mentioned the Felix daydreams.  Suppress the urge to daydream about clipping the breaks on the therapist’s car.

Punch the keys. Punch the keys, for God’s sake. Lather, rinse, and repeat. Loosen your tie. Straighten your tie. Tighten your tie. Look at the clock. Instinctively walk halfway to the bathroom before realizing you don’t even need to go. Teeter confused in the hallway for a moment. Return to your four taupe walls and non-existent windows. Look at the clock. Do something because someone might come in and catch you doing nothing, even though you’re always, always, doing something, anything. Stop for a second, just one second, and you will cease to exist.  

Look at the clock. Look at the clock until it’s five-thirty. Sit in the driver’s seat and cling to a fleeting fragment of relief until your knuckles lose their red. Sigh, because tomorrow will come.

Stop. Just fucking stop. Breathe. Look back. Realize this: things can change on their own, but you’re running out of time.

Turn the key, and take a drive. Drive anywhere that isn’t here. Once you get there, get out and walk anywhere that isn’t there. Once you get anywhere, realize it’s the same place you were before, and keep going. Keep going, and never stop. Never stop, until you reach a place where men don’t exist but air does, a place where the porch light can dim and never light up again.

            Wake up.