A day like every other

A man sits in front of the television.

The stock ticker rolls on underneath the headline news; both stocks and stories repeat endlessly. He waits for his stocks to appear. And reappear so he can see any changes that might have occurred in the time it takes for the ticker to make a complete cycle. Simultaneously, he waits for new news to happen. It becomes old too quickly.

When he can't take it anymore, he gets up. In the kitchen he pours water from a clear bottle into the kettle and switches it on. While the water heats up, he washes his tea cup in the sink. He gives it a vigorous wash, with dish soap and cloth, holding it up to his eyes at intervals to check whether it is as pure white as it should be. Then he gets a tea bag out the cupboard, places it in his cup, and...

The kettle isn't finished yet. He holds his breath and stands dead still for the few seconds until a click tells him it's done. He can proceed now. Boiling water is poured into cup; reddish-brown diffuses out from the tea bag. It's like ink, he thinks. But reddish-brown instead of blue or black. Ink? Why would ink be diffusing through water? Maybe water colours: the way they diffuse from a paintbrush dipped in water. Reddish-brown water colours. But now it occurs to him what it really looks like: it looks like tea, diffusing through hot water. He sees it often. This is the fourth time today already. The diffusion is over now. He rescues the tea bag from the hot tea and throws it into the bin. Milk is added. With the tea, he sits down in front of the television.

He often looks at his watch. He knows the hands slow down if looked at often, but he can't help it. It's important. He's waiting for six.

At six, as the second hand passes the last tick, he gets up, goes to the kitchen and takes a bottle of beer out the fridge. It has just the right temperature, he thinks, as he wraps both hands around the bottle. His beer always has just the right temperature: he adjusted the fridge several times before he got that right. But that was long ago; now it's plain sailing. A bottle opener pops the top off and beer flows slowly, carefully down into a glass. Then he raises it to his lips and draws in the first mouthful of the day. It's crisp. The first bit of beer is always the best.

He takes his glass back to the television and sits down. There's sport on now: kickboxing. Two men circle one another, occasionally probing with foot or glove. One of them is a brawny looking blond; the other is a skinny Asian with spiky hair. If the Asian stood still, his ribs could be counted by television viewers. But he doesn't stand still. How can these two be in the same weight class? Surely this isn't a fair fight? But it turns out fair after all: the blond is soon lying face down on the floor with his brawny arms and brawny legs splayed out.

It's seven-thirty, and seven-thirty is supper time. That went quick. Thank God for beer! And cooking is quick too: the spaghetti thrown into a big pot of water is ready at the same time as the frozen mince is heated through. He eats from a plate on the kitchen counter, not bothering to sit down. The combination of warm, greasy food and cold, crisp beer pleases him.

Back at the television, he flips through the channels and stops at James Bond. It's Roger Moore, but which film? The long-haired brunette on the boat reminds him of his first wife. She's beautiful. His ex-wife doesn't look like that anymore. Nor does the Bond girl. How old would she be now, he thinks? Oh, look at her: such hair, running dead straight right down the long length of her back. And her face - what is it about that face? She'll never age in this film. She looks so sullen though. Why can't she smile? She tells Bond that her father was murdered and then an ad for the new BMW comes. He changes channel.

At eleven he goes to bed. On the way from the lounge to his bedroom, he feels the heaviness in his limbs and eyelids and knows he will fall asleep quickly. Also, he knows that he will get up at seven, like he always does. He doesn't need a reason to get up in the morning. He just does it.

But his sleep is uneasy tonight. He wakes up several times after strange dreams. In one of them he dreams that he wrote down what he did that day and some poor soul wasted minutes of precious life reading it.