Monday Morning

5:55am. I leave the house. It’s still kind of dark, even if the sky is just starting to turn blue. It’s crisp, nice, I like it. I’m daring to wear a T-shirt today for the first time, but I’ve seen Jason Jones and the Irish guy wear T-shirts too, so fuck it why not. It’s comfortable.

I’m walking up Gertrude Street, the only people around are gym boys going to the 24 hour gym and Indian cleaners cleaning all the businesses this time of morning.

I walk up the middle of Gertrude Street nonchalantly. Not a care. It’s clear in each direction.

5.58am. A tram comes up Brunswick Street. I have to run a bit to make sure I catch it. It is one of the latest trams with 3 articulations. It’s all bright and yellow inside. It stretches out like a long corridor into the distance. I walk down to the far end. I get my Myki card out just in case there are inspectors for the two stops before the free tram zones starts for which I am not going to pay. Inspectors at 6am? I don’t think so. 

I’m sweating from the small amount of exertion I’ve just applied. Grrrr. How fit am I? It’s a bit humid, so I was just naturally a little sweaty anyway. I hate it that I sweat with such ease. I get out my trusty Barack and Michelle Obama postcard I keep in the pocket of my satchel and fan myself, like a menopausal woman. I don’t care what people think. Fuck them. 

There is a handsome guy with a backpack the straps for which across his chest look like a bulletproof vest. It makes him look hot.

There is a little mouse of a woman sitting right up the front in the front seat. I imagine she does everything at exactly the same time every day, in her beige jacket and her brown shoes.

Four strapping blokes get on in hiviz who are clearly off to some worksite.

There is a small assortment of, clearly, conscientious office workers scattered about.

There is a handsome young professional type in shorty shorts, with muscular hairy legs, and a hoodie, carrying his suit in a suit bag. I’d say he was hitting the gym before work

6.09am. In no time we’re at William Street.

I’m going to be at work even earlier than last fortnight.

I’m still sweating, although now I am out in the fresh air it feels better. The air on my sweaty body is kind of evaporative.

6:10 am. Oh thank God, do you like how I use that ironically, I’m out in the fresh air of the morning and it feels good. Some loon comes across Collins Street, rapping loudly as I cross William Street. Don’t give up your day job, buddy, I think. Chuckle, like he’s got a day job.

What am I doing here so early? I’m an idiot. Is it because I’m getting up at 5am instead of 5:30am? I guess it has to be. I should review that change. I could have got up an hour later.

6:13am. I’m in the lift.

I make coffee.

I’m listening to Adele’s 30.

7am. I make more coffee. The day is light outside.

Ourboybaz from IT is always in after me. He lives a long way out. He’s always in the kitchen with his muscles, and his tight black jeans. We chat morning talk. He’s nice

Then I’m back at my desk with my second coffee. I’m listening to Adele, she makes me feel melancholy, alone there in the quiet. Suddenly, I’m thinking about Mark dying, oh I don’t know why? I had been thinking about him. It’s the quiet of the morning, perhaps. The isolation, here, alone, your mind wanders. That Adele she’s a witch. Those spoken word pieces of 30. Who can say. Then me dying, and all of what we are coming to an end, disappearing, no longer. And Sam living on his own, lonely, struggling without me. Suddenly, I can’t see to work with the tears in my eyes, welling up and running down my cheeks. 

Who thought I’d end up here? I think to myself. I get a tissue and wipe my eyes. 

Not that I mind crying, quit the opposite really. It’s kind of cleansing, I think. 

Ah, that Adele, what a trip. Her voice is gorgeous, as are her lyrics.  That stuff with her kid, just kind of catches me. 

Monday morning.

Eventually, everyone came in, of course.

Big Ange is in next. Funny the person who lives the closest, and the person who lives the farthest away, are in first and second. Ange says hello. She walks around the office in that stiff way she has of walking.

The Big Poo is in next. 8am. He is always up, always cheerful, always seemingly on a high.

Chip Swell is always in at 8.20am. He’s nice. Tall. Conservative, clueless to how good looking he is.

Jason Jones comes in. He so looks like Sam. I still want to frisk him down for five minutes to see if he feels the same as well.

The Midget comes in. Quick. Efficient. You’ve never heard good morning said with so few syllables.

Boris is never in before 9am, always with a coffee in hand.

And I had to share my morning with them.

It was kind of a shame.