A Man of His Word

I wake up early, because the early bird gets the worm. I am not fond of worms, but I am even less fond of losing. So I rise at dawn, stare out the window, and hope for victory. When one finally wriggles from the soil, I pluck it up and swallow it whole. It tastes of dirt and resignation, but losing tastes worse.

Breakfast is a single hard-boiled egg, because I refuse to put all my eggs in one basket. The other eggs remain scattered on the counter, spread across different bowls, safely diversified against risk.

On the way to work, I keep my head above water, though there is no water. It is important, they say, to stay afloat. I imagine currents at my ankles, tides threatening to drag me down into ordinary conversation. I nod solemnly at strangers, paddling invisibly with my arms.

At the office, I bite my tongue. Literally. It hurts, but people seem to appreciate my restraint. When asked if I can handle a new project, I roll up my sleeves. This confuses my coworkers, because I am already wearing short sleeves, but I roll the fabric anyway, further and further, until my shirt resembles a tourniquet.

When lunch arrives, I do not make mountains out of molehills, though the mashed potatoes resemble both. I chew carefully, because I have been told not to bite off more than I can chew.

In the afternoon, I let sleeping dogs lie. There are no dogs, but if there were, I would not disturb them. This feels like moral progress.

On the way home, I remind myself that curiosity killed the cat. I avoid looking at shop windows, advertisements, or the sky. The sky is full of questions. I keep my eyes on the sidewalk, where answers are supposed to be.

Dinner is soup, because you are what you eat. I have been liquid for some time.

At night, I hit the hay. There is no hay in my apartment, so I keep a small bag of straw by the bed for this purpose. One strike with my fist, a ritual, and then I sleep.

And tomorrow, I will do it all again. Because a man is nothing if he is not true to his word.