February 21, 2007
I woke up late. I glance over at the clock; my radio alarm had been playing for an hour. I force my eyes fully open, crawl out of bed, and head for the shower. I’m not an early riser, and it’s now positively mid-morning — why is this such a hassle?
I take the train to work. On the platform, I’ve caught the eye of a tall, slim brunette. She’s probably 5’11, perhaps slightly taller. Her height might make man-hunting tricky; I’ve known so many tall women who do find it difficult. On any other day I might have spoken to her. The initial “Hi” could easily have been followed by a compliment about her hair (which was genuinely nice) or a question about the book she was reading. Instead, I buried myself back into my own book.
She gets off the train at the same stop as me. We walk in the same direction for a minute or so, before heading off down different streets. I don’t feel too bothered about today’s missed opportunity.
On arrival at the office, it becomes clear to me that I’m really tired. Not the kind of tired where you long for bed. The kind of tired where you long to be relaxing. My working days have been too long lately. I’m not tired. I’m fatigued.