A Regular Realization

This entry is part 6 of 16 in the series MicroFiction

At some point, between the steady sound of traffic and the silence of sleep, he was hit with the realization that he just wasn’t happy.

The side of the bed that his wife once occupied was empty, and though he was glad to rid of the miserable bitch, the emptiness resonated with an ache.

And he knew that in the morning. He would wake up, drink coffee and shave with a lit cigarette dangling from his lower lip.

He would listen to the news, none of it good these days, and then get in his car and drive to the soul crushing office where he worked. He spent forty hours a week trying to think of ways to get out, or at the very least, get numb enough to not care that he was in a place that he hated.

He would finish his day and make his way home. He would stop at the usual place for his coffee, drink half of it as he finished the ride, and the other half over whatever dinner he had chosen to microwave while he watched mindless television programs.

He looked at the clock by his bed. It was late. Time for sleep. And as he drifted off, he came up with a hundred ideas–some of them new–to make tomorrow different. To make some amazing changes in his life before another year was over.

And like always, the ideas faded with the sound of the traffic as he was wrapped in the silence of sleep, his last thought was that tomorrow was another day.

Always, tomorrow was another day.

Great. I think I bummed myself out. What a way to get back to the Micro-Fiction, eh?

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