Some words on life at AQ, Pt. 1

On sunny days I awaken to light glistening in through my constantly open window. Cloudy days, the light is diffused and soft. I wake up at a different time each morning, or afternoon, or sometimes evening, based on the amount of sleep I obtained the previous night. Today is one of the grey days. I open my eyes and look across the room to see the time on my crimson microwave perched atop the refrigerator. I lie on my side with Conor’s arm limply draped over me. He is still asleep, and I am not surprised. I cuddle in closer—it gets chilly in the mornings—and due to the fact that my blankets have been dislodged and are no longer tucked in, several of them are on the floor below, further accentuating the shiver of the brisk morning breeze. It is too early. I turn my alarm off, and unwittingly drift back off to sleep, missing my 10:50 French 102. I do wake up with ample time to get to my 12:15 World History 162, however, and I am grateful for that. I roll over onto my left side and if Conor’s not awake yet, I whisper his name into his ear until he responds, usually with a groan, or a, “what time is it?” This morning, he is awake, and asks me what time it is. I tell him, and as usual, he replies, “FUCK!!” This signifies that he, like me, has slept straight through his first class. We talk in quiet voices for a bit until I decide that it is time for me to get out of bed. I kiss him on the cheek or forehead and say, “time to get up, kiddo,” or something of that nature. I swing out of bed like a clumsy, inexperienced acrobat, using the pipe above my bed. I push off the radiator or the windowsill with my toes, and land on the ground. My next destination is the bathroom. I wash my face and brush my teeth and sometimes my hair. I go back into my room, boil some water from the bathroom sink, and make some instant oatmeal, with some apple spider on the side. Clothes are scattered beneath my bed: I grab a shirt, a sweater, and pants, and put them on. Finally, it is cig time. If Conor has dragged himself out of bed yet, and gone to his room to get ready, I walk down the hall to his room. I place a cigarette between his lips, one between mine, and we walk down to the ground floor, then outside to Cig Isle to start the day right. The first cigarette of the day is always a good one. My body has been deprived of the constant nicotine intake of my waking hours, and as I smoke, I wake up, due to the gentle buzz spreading throughout my system. Conor and I are fairly quiet, retaining our morning voices, and sometimes I bring a mug of hot chocolate for us to share. We pass the mug, and exchange gentle conversation between ourselves, or with the other people sitting at the Smoker’s Table.