When she wakes up, Aileen still has a headache. She needs to edit, wants to write. For a few minutes, the light is too heavy for motion, but soon she rolls over, out, up. Stretches. Checks the time. It’s late, Lena will already be gone. A quiet space awaits.
Stepping out of the bedroom, Aileen shuffles sockily into the kitchen, fills the kettle, lights the gas and settles the metal strawberry on the flame. A flicker of self-contentment warms her. It’s not the first time she’s successfully lit the gas, but it’s still a continual—if minimal—source of pride. Plus, how many people have kettles that look like strawberries? A bizarre find at the bazaar, certainly. Despite the fact that Lena already had an electric chainyk—so much faster and more efficient—the teaberry, as Aileen prefers to call it, has been one of Aileen’s more colorful touches to the apartment since moving in.
Bathroom, window staring, and other pieces of morning routine, easily timed to match the water’s slow boil. Strawberry tea, just for a bit of consistency. Not exactly redundancy, but more of a motif, perhaps. Sort of a recognition of the fact that it would be lovely to eat strawberries for breakfast, but it’s October. In Ukraine. So, tea.
Do you feel like this is going slowly?
Do you move fast when you wake up with a headache? Especially one you’re not supposed to have? Especially one you accidentally invented due to inattention? Really. Take it easy.
Aileen steps to the kitchen window as the tea steeps, opens it and looks out and straight down. Four stories and no waiting.
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