Clouds overcast cars in ditches. Backs bending at the break of an early morning. Shovels scrape concrete. Under the snow the sidewalk feels damp, unmistakably warm. My love for the sun is circumstantial. Heat moves spontaneously, tempting thermodynamics to take a break. Blue-collar workers wake and commit blue-collar crimes. Fingers yellow from tar, bodies become restless in the absence of money.
This morning Malcolm is the first call, the first to remind me it’s noon on a Monday. I’ve been late to work everyday since orientation. He tells me another prefabricated excuse will only buy me a few minutes. He suggests I jog off a few calories, sweat out a few toxic inhibitors and take a shower. He says it will feel good to do something, that he can’t cover my ass again until Tuesday.
Malcolm is the kind of grizzly looking bastard you want on your side. But not always by your side. Over the phone I could hear his bear-like belly bellow, harboring a cheap laugh or suffering from indigestion. Everyday I remind him, for a Canadian homosexual he doesn’t eat near enough poutine or dick. I sloth my way from one side of the bed to the other. Heeding Malcolm's advice, I take the day’s first nap in the shower. Cold water directs my senses to the smell of burnt english muffins.
I leave the house and head downtown where the city seems empty. I try to remember tiny snapshots of the people occupying the bus stops, corner cafes, taking their damn sweet time crossing crosswalks. Snapshots of blurred lives seen through bus windows, filtered through exhaust fumes. Before work, I take lunch to ensure that I am late.