One Of Those Mornings

I was in a hurry to get my haircut, so I could get home and wring words from my soul into a sermon, so that I could get to church in time for this afternoon’s wedding, so that I could get home and not be rushed in the wrapping-up the sermon, and would have time to do laundry and clean up the flat.
I hurried fro the flat to the barber’s, but on the way I turned the ankle that I had already turned Thursday night on my way home from Mark and Alana’s; I hobbled a little on my way along to get my haircut. The barbershop didn’t open till forty minutes after it was supposed to, though (the proprietor asked some pointed questions of the employee who opened up, but I did not rat her out). While I was waiting, a local coffeeshop opened, so I decided to pass the minutes in a nutritive pursuit. Sadly, though, I forgot to ask for black coffee, so I was served a steaming flagon of milkified coffee. It was my fault — I oughtn’t to ask for something different from what I ordered, so I sipped my medicine.
From then on, things picked up. The wedding was fine, though the sermon articulated a more severe patriarchy than I would have expected. I got home in time to make some dinner and sit down to write, and writing has gone well tonight, but I really want the sermon just to end so I can go to bed and wake up on the day my sweetheart rejoins me from the States.
Counting the hours.

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