It was morning now. He was tired, and he felt the bags sinking heavily beneath his eyes. He rose gingerly, a familiar throb in his head deepening as he pulled off the covers and sat on the edge of his bed, resting his elbows on his knees, forehead in his palms.
His bare toes curled as they met the hardwood floor, recoiling from the cold oak of the winter morning. The chill it sent through his legs seemed to ease the pain in his head.
Rubbing his eyes with his fists, he stood slowly, careful not to put too much weight on his right leg. The floorboards creaked under his limp. His knee had given him trouble for years, and although he had never allowed himself to see a doctor about it, he guessed the cartilage had been stripped bare — one of the many realities of a lifetime auto mechanic.
He made his way into the kitchen, sliding his hand along the doorframe as he left the bedroom. The day’s first light peered into the hallway, softly illuminating the lone photograph hanging on the wall: his granddaughter, Sophia. He missed the days when her laughter filled his home.
He cracked two eggs over a simmering pan, preparing the same breakfast he’d eaten every morning since he was a child: two fried eggs over medium, two slices of whole wheat toast, three strips of bacon. The sound of the spattering grease comforted him, eased him into the calming remedy of his daily routine.
Coffee dripped steadily into a brown-stained pot as his mind wandered toward his long list of work for the day. Stan needed his transmission replaced by midafternoon. Miriam’s sedan needed an oil change and the rear axle straightened. Scout’s power steering went out, Don’s brakes were squeaking, Meechum’s left rear tire needed a patch. His own check engine light went on a couple days ago.
His toast burned.
The grisly man, unshaven since last weekend, buttered his blackened bread and placed the eggs on top to help mask the taste of ash. The yolks were runny, just how he liked them, and the bacon was still steaming as he sat down to eat. He was satisfied.
As he drank his coffee, black, he felt its warmth spread through his body, relaxing his muscles one by one, his shoulders, knees, and hands finally loosening. He could feel his toes again.
Outside the wind began to swirl, carrying the smell of pine and manzanita through the window in the kitchen, slightly ajar. His small lawn was cold and hard, the grass still bearing morning frost.
He ate his breakfast, mindful to keep a bite of bacon for the very end. He wouldn’t want to start his day tasting of anything else.
His headache began to subside as he watched the fog descend over the crest of the nearby ridge, creeping ever closer to his home in its endless shrouded march. The massive cloud silently blanketed every tree, branch, and leaf in its path, leaving nothing in sight save a few pines just tall enough to peek over the rolling haze, clawing for every ray of sunshine they could swallow.
Just as it did every morning, the fog would soon reach his home, enveloping it slowly and completely, providing a temporary refuge, quiet and solitary. Perhaps a bit too much so.