The Pull of Water

It wasn't the alarm, he shut it off with a practiced arc of his arm. It wasn't the cold that found its way through the gap between the blanket and the sheet. It wasn't the dim winter light working its way through his eyelids. It was the pull of water.

Robbie pushed the blankets forward, swung his legs over the side of the bed and hesitated there for a moment, let his eyes adjust to the light. The cold, unfiltered through the warmth of wool, crept up his legs, down his arms, across his back. Tendrils of icy bite wormed into nerve endings. He wavered for a moment between making coffee first or heading straight to the shower.

The ideal course of action would be to begin the morning brew before entering the shower - that way, a fresh cup of coffee would be ready for him just as he was making his way out of the bathroom. But mornings, particularly Monday mornings, particularly these recent Monday mornings, are not a time for linear thought or logic. He grabbed a fresh towel and a set of clothes. He stepped into the bathroom and shut the door.

It was winter outside, a season particularly suited to death - the barren trees, the ice, the fog, and of course the relentless, endless cold. His father had passed away two weeks ago. He had used up all the bereavement time allowed by his workplace, but most of that time was spent with his mother and siblings and relatives near and far, geographically and personally. He himself had to fly in from Seattle. He wanted to stay at a hotel, but his mother insisted family sleep at the house for as long as they were in town. No one had the heart or the energy to refuse, least of all Robbie.