It was something akin to a routine, really.
She’d go to bed, she’d have trouble sleeping, she’d sigh and go to the living room so she wouldn’t disturb Lee’s sleep.
The city slept as she stared blankly out the window, hoping for sleep to come and feeling cold, quiet hours crept by. It never did, and her body always felt sore from exhaustion.
But then during a night – much like any other night – she noticed something across the street: the alarm clock read 3:41 a.m. and there was a man sitting among piles and more piles of newspaper. Fresh, plastic-wrapped newspaper ready to be delivered.
The man sitting across his motorcycle under the feeble streetlight had a newspaper in his hand and read it carefully slow. She just watched him as he licked his fingertips before turning a page; she observed as he sometimes looked around, sometimes stiffled a yawn, sometimes nodded sleepily.
At 4:03 a.m. a car came and a man stepped out to greet the other. The two talked a little, their voices echoing a little in the silent, humid street. The first man turned his bike on, climbed, and went away. The second man opened his shop’s door and struggled a little to take all the newspaper inside.
She felt sleepy all of a sudden and went back to the room.
The next day she crossed the street. She had never noticed the little cafe before, and how cozy and warm it was inside, and how the friendly barista – unlike her – had no shadows under his eyes.
She bought a newspaper and took it home to read it later, but never did.
But then it became something akin to a routine, her insomnia. She’d only be able to sleep after the newspaper delivery man had ridden away on his bike. She’d visit the cafe and greet the barista and buy a copy of the newspaper and toss it somewhere around the house where Lee would find it later. A day or a week later, but he’d always find it.
It was something akin to a routine, really, in all its simplicity.
Reality 93. Simplicity