Creative Writing, Personal

Sunrise

//circa February 2015

The clouds looked like ash against the pre-sunrise sky. Two restless souls stirred in their respective twin sized beds, separated by a great divide, both wary of the preceding night and all of its humanistic highs and lows. This strange, beautiful view is what Fernando, as he likes to be called, gets to wake up to every morning. Sutro tower beamed high into the pale morning sky, overlooking a hill of squished homes. This is what he gets to fall asleep to every night, and like most common beautiful things, he probably overlooks such beauty, as it is no more than home to him at this point in time. However, the second restless soul in the room feels envy for such a sight. Even from two stories above the room she lives in, the outlook is diverse, intense; yet her view is the side of a building, some bushy trees, and the pathway to the entrance into her building. Not nearly the grand sight she was looking at now.

Gentle winds, sure to pick up later in the day, guided the now milky blue blobs in the sky.

Last night began to run through her brain. So much build up, so much anticipated excitement. From the lounge, lit by red lights in the ceiling, illuminating the billowing smoke in the room, to the $42 sushi dinner she ate ravenously without regard for the friends she was with. The high tension of the night to come vanished immediately, into a drop a stomach, the intense pulsing of her blood, the outward silence of broken ideas, and the heart wrenching possibility of false advertising. The muni ride back was silent. She was thinking of an outcome, some positive that wouldn’t fall short of the wine filled, fort building, fun fucking night she had been looking forward to since Tuesday. He was falling short, and she was trying to pick up the pieces. The build up of excitement wasn’t necessarily excessively long, only four days, but the problem with living in a world of now is the constant desire for immediate gratification. She would get what she wanted.

Good thing the ride was only $5, right? Was that money worth the ¾ bottle of wine she ended up drinking or the pent up energy she was dying to express? Was it worth him grabbing her arm and pulling her close, giving her kisses physically deep but emotionally shallow? Was it worth the two quick rounds, neither fulfilling a desire she had been looking forward to for four days? This is what defined the night before: the build up. So much excitement, only to please someone else, only to turn a night of anticipation into an affirmation of the truth.

Light shone into the room now, revealing the personality Fernando kept under his bed: backpacks, a soccer ball, a gym bag. Boys tend to keep things pretty minimal, and this was no exception.

Sunrise, as predicted by her phone, finally came. The world, recovering from such a peculiar night, was bound to wake up in just a few hours. Birds, the ones still left here in the wintery town in February, were stretching their wings, ready to take on the new day.

Fernando lay asleep, breathing deeply. His thin body was exposed, covered at the waist, toes popping out at the end of his covers. The early game he had talked about so much was now ten minutes in, but all he could do was cling to the last blissful seconds of his dream before waking up to the reality of the other soul in his room, the goodbyes that were soon to come, the question of how to behave, what to say.

Up he rose, at the loud falling of her purse. On the television went, English accents narrating a sport he had, no doubt, spent his life attempting to perfect.

Morning was nigh.

 

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