A journalist observes life in the far north.
In my previous life, I used to sleep in the morning until it was light outside. I hate waking up to darkness. I hate it so much that it made me feel waves of nausea, which I am sure was psychosomatic.
These days, I collapse into bed about 10pm and I am awake by 7am, when sunrise is still hours away. I stumble out of the bedroom, squint at the overhead lights and plop on the couch, a scowl on my face, according to Alec, who has been up for a half an hour. I’m not much for conversation, so I stare at the tv. The morning news is on. Alec usually has a cup of coffee under his belt. He’s grown tired of the political commercials and the political stories dominating television, and he’ll make some sort of smart ass comment to which I nod. My mind is dull.
At some point, I gather my strength, stand up and walk to the kitchen, where I warm some milk on the stove and make a latte, which I bring back to the couch. Alec sits in the nearby rocking chair, which seems on the verge of breaking any day now. It’s been patched back together once. He pets the dogs and keeps trying to make small talk.
I’m just plain bad company in the morning, especially in the winter. As I type this, the sky is inky black with a sliver of moon. It feels like the middle of the night.
The radio is on now, Alec is gone and our one-year-old daughter is awake. She wakes up grumpy sometimes too, but not today. Lucky is smiling and walking around, looking for something to play with or maybe something to eat because she is hanging out near her high chair.
Pretty soon I’ll have to face the day, despite the darkness, but I think I’ll linger on the Internet a few minutes longer.