Waiting

Its 8.02. I slip my legs over the side of the bed. I slide the fibres of the rug between my toes and pull hard. I am alive. Waiting again. But alive.

Waiting for the bathroom. Waiting for someone to be ready. Waiting for them to come back so I can have the car. Waiting to use the shower. Waiting until the washing is done. I am waiting. Waiting. Always waiting.  

I scrunch the fibres of the rug under my toes. Perhaps I am tired of waiting. I really need the bathroom. I could use the one upstairs but it will wake them up. I wait. With the rug pulled between my toes. I could put on my dressing gown and leave. Just leave. No more waiting. Just gone. Free. But I would need to pee before I got to the end of the street. So I wait. For the bathroom to be free. Whilst my freedom slips down to my feet and out the bottom of them. Into the rug. The rug absorbs my freedom.

I look at it. I picture it lifting off. Floating down the hallway. Down the street. Without me. Free. I focus my frustration on my toes. How dare this rug want to be free. I paid for this rug. I placed it here. How dare it want to be free. I tug with my toes on the filaments of rug. It is never enough. I need the bathroom. I need to leave. It is 8.03.

I pull on my dressing gown and I just leave. I leave. I roll up the rug and take it with me. We can be free together. I roll it up. Me and the rug all rolled up, we walk to the end of the street. I still need to pee. I lay it out on the grass. I lay down on it and look at the sky. I am free. I get up. I leave it there. It is free. I am free. I keep walking.  But it was all in my head. In my head I left. The rug came with me. The reality is I wait, I pee, I get the breakfast. I wait some more. I go out. Possibly I am alive but this, this is not living.