My sore muscles push and pull at the stretching of my legs. I blink at the burning sunlight that flows through the window near the ticking clock. I throw off the covers, realizing I’m still in my jeans. But I don’t care because I’m late.

Slipping a track jacket over my tank top I shove my feet in a worn pair of Nikes and grab some toast on my way out. The soft vision of my mother waving goodbye plays in my head. My fingers slide my bangs back in my uncombed hair and pin them there. As the elevator doors unfold, the sudden energy to my legs rushes me out of the apartment building and back into reality.

I put my sweaty hands in the pockets of my jeans as I walk into work, embarrassed.
“You’re late.” I listen to the boss’s usual croak. I nod and hurry to the cashier stand, where I throw on an apron, and recite my lines; ‘Did you find everything okay?’ I know I did, because it’s all right here.