Connor Tadworth’s Morning

Connor Tadworth woke up at precisely 6:37 a.m., as he did every morning. His digital alarm clock, shaped like a block with no discernible branding, emitted a sound that was neither jarring nor melodic. It was simply sound. He opened his blue eyes and blinked three times before sitting up.

His bedroom was beige. The walls were beige, the sheets were beige, and the carpet, a low-pile industrial kind, was taupe, which was adjacent to beige in the color spectrum. He swung his legs off the bed, revealing pale, hairless ankles that contrasted faintly with the oatmeal-colored robe he donned after slipping his feet into house slippers that had marginally collapsed over time.

He stood still in the center of the room for a moment, recalling a dream that had something to do with a hallway. Or maybe it was a staircase. Either way, he decided not to think about it further.

The kitchen was small and functionally lit by a single fluorescent bulb. He poured water from a plastic pitcher into a rust-colored kettle and placed it on the stove, which clicked twice before igniting. While the water heated, Connor sat at the small table and stared at a notepad where he had written the words “Buy eggs” in small, exacting script. He did not eat eggs, but he sometimes felt that people should keep them in their refrigerators.

The kettle eventually began to hiss. He rose, turned the burner off, and made himself a cup of instant coffee using precisely one level teaspoon. The mug had a fading image of Goofy on it. Connor had bought it at a Walt Disney World gift shop in 1998, the same year he began avoiding eye contact with a fellow trainee named Glen during close-quarters combat exercises.

The coffee tasted like slightly burnt water. He drank it in silence, chewing slightly as he swallowed, as if there were sediment at the bottom, though there wasn’t.

After finishing the cup, Connor brushed his teeth while standing completely still, looking into the mirror with the expression of a man inspecting a lightbulb. He noted, absently, that his jawline had remained relatively firm. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he imagined a hand resting gently against it—but the thought vanished before it formed fully, like a bird frightened off by a door slam.

At 7:23 a.m., he retrieved his gray gym bag from the hallway closet. It contained gloves, duct tape, and a pack of chewing gum. He liked spearmint. The contents were unremarkable.

As he walked out the door, he locked it with a key that had no markings. The air was tepid. The sky was a color best described as “not quite blue.”

It was time to go to work. Though what that meant, he rarely discussed.