I wake up weary in my bones and eyes. The digital clock switches from 5:37 to 5:38 the instant my line of sight focuses. I lay back catching the shock jolt through me, and I fully accept that I’ll be late for work for the second time in three days. I jump out of bed and fumble with the bathroom light. Switch. Blind. I turn the shower on. It rushes warm, flushing over me comfortably.

I’ve come to accept that I have to look perfect for my employer. I’m far too young and unproven to ditch the tie, or not shave, or not meticulously trim my beard. Ugh. I hate being fake and always having to impress. I hate my job.

I leave a crack in the bathroom door letting just enough light illuminate my phone, wallet, and keys— usually not conveniently corralled.

I crush my pinkie toe on the aesthetically charming night stand. Loose change pours onto the wood floor.

She stirs, “What the hell are you doing!? Aren’t you going to work?” Her sarcastic bark cuts my anger open in the quiet morning.