On a typical Sunday morning, there’s people all hustling and bustling down the road, smacking their lips at one another to get their point across. I would get up and shut my window because I hate to listen to the sounds of the busy-bodies. Of course, I have to watch them, though. I love to watch them on Sunday mornings. There’s a certain joy in watching people hurry. Especially when I’m in no particular rush myself. I always flip my chair around and sit there looking through my window with a cup of coffee in my hand. That really gives me a kick. I like to pretend that I’m Meursault from that Stranger book my English teacher made me read in high school. I always hated when they made us read. Nothing was ever very good. Stranger wasn’t very good either. I just liked to think about Meursault sitting in front of his window watching everyone for a few days. Nothing else from that book made much sense. I never got why he didn’t just lie. Books never make sense to me. Authors always try too hard to be pretentious and make a point. My English teacher was always saying how books capture ‘the essence of the human condition.’ I made sure she knew I thought that that was a pile of you-know-what. Life doesn’t always have a point to it. Sometimes things just happen. Anyway, I sip my coffee and watch the people below and laugh every time somebody slips or drops their newspaper in a puddle. People are always doing that—dropping their things in puddles, I mean. You can’t blame them, though. Puddles are everywhere in Seattle so you’re bound to drop something in them every now and again. It’s tradition. There’s often the same people walking down the road every Sunday. I don’t live on a busy street or anything, just a residential road.
	The day in question wasn’t a typical Sunday morning. I don’t mean that there weren’t busy-bodies hustling and bustling down the road as usual. There wasn’t some great calm that morning, and if there were I sure as hell wouldn’t have taken it as some sort of sign. People are always looking too deep into things. Not everything is a symbol: sometimes the rain is just rain. When I woke up I felt rather strange. Like I didn’t want to get up. I don’t mean I was just tired and didn’t want to start the day. I usually get a kick out of getting up and stretching out all big and wide and yawning like they do in the movies. I felt more like if I got up, then I would be sick. There was this feeling, all heavy and dark in my chest that I couldn’t shake. My head felt fuzzy and things didn’t quite look the same—like everything had been moved one inch to the left or something. I thought that if I took a quick nap then when I woke up I’d feel all straightened out, but twenty minutes later when I woke up again I felt just as off. I couldn’t bring myself to get out of bed, though, so I just laid there for a long while. Eventually it wasn’t even morning anymore. I hate that. Realizing that it isn’t morning anymore and that the day’s begun, I mean. I didn’t really think anything of it being afternoon that day, though. I just laid there and thought about making the heavy feeling in my chest go away. It was like somebody’d come into my room while I was sleeping and stuffed me all with feathers. Like a pillow waiting to be fluffed. What really got me was the fact that my window was still open on account of me not getting up to shut it in the morning. I can’t stand the obnoxious noise the busy-bodies make. The breeze started to creep in and under my blanket.