At dawn, Mac slapped his alarm clock quiet and lay in bed for a moment longer, just breathing while his mind churned. A pale, gray light filtered through the blinds and fell in stripes over him and over the mess of magazines and empty cans over a footstool nearby. He blinked up at the collage of clippings pasted on the ceiling through puffy eyes barely open more than a crack. There were cuts-outs of cars, some of arcade cabinets, a family photo and another of Doc in his prime. And then the article of last week's press conference, the edges of which he noticed were curling. He'd have to tape it back up.
Moaning softly, he threw an arm over his face. Tempting as it was to burrow back into his pillow and sleep like the dead for at least another couple of hours, he knew he wouldn't. He would drag himself out of bed as he did every morning, rain, or shine. And he'd run.
Eventually.
Still half-asleep, he puttered around his apartment in a tee and boxers, rolling the kinks out of his shoulders and shaking the leaden feeling out of his arms, exhaling in heavy puffs. His body felt thick, his skin aching with tiredness. It was a challenge willing himself just to brush his teeth and run a comb through his hair. While rolling up the tube to squeeze the last of his toothpaste out, he made a mental note to pick up more later.
"Aw, ma! Do I have to?"
"How can you even ask something like that? I won't have my boy be dirty. You never know who you might meet when you're out!"
As far as breakfast went, Mac didn't much like loitering in the kitchen, let alone eating at a table not all that much larger than an end table. It had been long enough since he had woken up to the smell of something nice and sat down with others to a meal already served for him; something he long-since realized he had taken for granted when he was younger. The novelty of living on his own, being able to shovel his food down and not have to excuse his poor manners had worn out pretty quickly. Shortly after moving in he had made the habit of eating near the TV, sometimes turning up the volume and shutting his eyes for a moment to appreciate the sound of voices that filled the room. Although the banging of the neighbour against the wall had a way of shattering the illusion of having company.
The extent of his knowledge of cooking from scratch was to prepare eggs – scrambled, sunny side up, what have you - with the addition of overly crisp bacon every so often as a nice little treat. Eggs were inexpensive and could hold him a good while. They weren't half bad with a dollop of ketchup, either. But this morning he passed on them and a bowl of cereal, gulping down a glass of orange juice instead and cramming a slice of toast into his mouth, keeping it there to free up his hands. Within half a minute, he had tugged on his sweatsuit and stepped out of his apartment, pocketing the keys.
This was his favourite time of day to jog. Now, when it was still quiet, and late in the evening when dumpy and gutted buildings with chipping, fading brickwork hid in darkness and the Manhattan skyline lit up across the water, glittering like Christmas.
The rain-slickened street shimmered, his worn shoes slapping over shallow puddles. He started at a light and easy pace, always. And once his body quit whining and accepted the fact that he wasn't going to curl back into bed anytime soon, he felt weightlessness and a tireless determination take hold of him and could pretend he was trying to keep up with Doc's cycling, driving himself harder. His panting breaths misted silver in the air.
It felt good. He felt good. The kind of 'good' that came in dropping negative emotions at the door of the gym and fiercely pummeling punching bags and hefting weights and skipping rope until he was drenched in sweat, unaware of the hours melting away until Doc would lay a kindly hand over his shoulder and tell him with a half-rueful look that it was time to go home.
Home.
His apartment wasn't really home in the way he thought one should be. There was no laughter, no smiles in greeting, no one to encourage him or congratulate him when he'd step inside after a long day. It was just someplace to stay warm and lay down to rest, waiting for night to pass.
The husk of an old, gutted car whipped past in his peripheral vision.
Well, he was lucky enough to have that, he mused.