He pulled the sheets close where he’d kicked them away during the night. He had forgotten how cold the mornings were on the island; the cold slipping through the cracks in the old house, assaulting any exposed skin, burrowing deep into the bones.
Outside it was still black. The moon, so full and clear the night before had set, and the post-Solstice sun was still yet to gray the morning sky.
He didn’t want to wake, but routine was routine. Then it struck him: he didn’t have to get up, so he crawled deeper inside the blankets’ warmth, and the morning’s silence.
Mornings in the city were quiet, but it was city quiet. Traffic still stormed by on the I-5, bottles and cans rattled in the street. He’d sit most mornings over a steaming cup of coffee letting that calm wash over him. He craved it, a small escape from the demands of the coming day.
Here on the island there were no demands. There was little traffic, what cars could be heard were dull hums carried across the water. The quiet here was natural, and in the winter, more complete.
He thought of pulling out his book, but didn’t want to expose his arms to the cold. Instead, he lay there, contemplating what he would do with the day, unsure of what direction to go in but not wanting to waste a minute of it. To sit and read felt wasteful, but at the same time it was what he wanted to do. He hadn’t indulged a want in some time. The thought scared him.
The sky outside the window began to lighten with the pink and orange hue of the morning. A fresh start waited.
He pulled back the covers and placed his feet on the floor.
