The Morning Routine

Before the sun rises, the dining room is dark and empty; Galiel assumes he is the only one awake. He perches on a barstool behind the counter and polishes glasses and dishes in preparation for the morning rush.

The light begins to filter through the blinds in a lovely, striped pattern. Galiel wonders if, one day, the coffee wouldn’t brew or the smell of pastries wouldn’t fill the room. It’s a futile exercise. The world was made in repetitions, and so is he. If the coffee and pastries weren’t there, he wouldn’t be, either. He assumed no one would be.