Every day, June wakes at 7 and hits the snooze button twice. Every day. She never falls back asleep, but she hits the button and lets the minutes pass slowly, her eyes staring at the brightening wall. Snooze ‘til 7:09. Snooze ‘til 7:18. When she was young, she’d asked her mother why the clock makers set the snooze time to nine minutes. Who decides that? Her mother thought that nine was the hardest number to add so in the time you spent thinking what time you’ll hear the alarm again, you wake up. June disagrees. Nines are easy. Sevens are the hardest. Sixes are miserable too.
The third beep blares. She turns over and stares at the red light. She listens to the scratchy, whining buzz. Her arm extends and clicks the button. The room is silent but she hears her roommate in the kitchen.
June gets out of bed and turns on the shower. She steps on the scale and wishes she hadn’t. She brushes her teeth and puts on moisturizer. June pulls her hair into a ponytail, puts on deodorant and considers makeup. She shoves her feet into still-tied sneakers and pulls a white sweater on over her t-shirt.
Johnny has the scale on the kitchen table. He’s stacked up the clear baggies beside the scale, but they sag and tilt onto the table. June pulls a plastic cup from the cabinet and fills it. Half orange juice, half Dr. Pepper.
“That’s disgusting.” Johnny smiles. June shrugs and takes a sip. She watches him measure the powder into the tiny bags.
“How many?” She leans back in her chair.
“Four, but one on 59th.”
Johnny knows she hates going over there, hates that part of town. She hates the museums and the smiling tourists. Hates the nannies and the gurgling babies.
June grabs the four bags and he hands her the addresses. She needs to be at the restaurant in two hours. Four stops, two hours.
“Make me one?” June shoves the bags and paper in her back pocket and picks up the trimmed-down straw. Johnny pulls a line of powder from the pile, straightening it up with his Visa. June leans down, sticks the straw at the edge of the line and inhales. Hard, sharp. Instant clarity. She feels better. She feels alive. Running her hand over his shoulder, she heads toward the door.
This is my first visual prompt. Also, why am I so fucking depressing? Sorry. I considered writing about the two women ’bout to embrace in a sweet, friendly hug. I totally did. And then I realized that A) Hugs kinda gross me out and B) I don’t give a shit about happy people.