Time gained by doing nothing

The light comes slowly through the curtain. Downstairs, someone puts the kettle on. The sound of a spoon against a cup. She's still lying in bed, turning the page of her book. Her body beneath a rumpled sheet. Her mind in the world of ‘Clean’, written by the Chilean author Alia Trabucco Zerán.

The man in the story has also started his day: not lazing in bed, but with a plan, with lists, with goals he's forgotten the reason for.

"(..) a man who counts. Who keeps track of every minute, every peso, every conquest. Who gets up before dawn just to fit in a run, who brushes his teeth while tidying up, checks his calendar while he runs, and reads the newspaper while he eats. The kind of person who lets his life unfold according to a plan and knows exactly how his minutes and hours will be filled. Because the minutes and the hours are also part of that plan."

She turns onto her other side. The pillow is warm. One page. Then another. The light has shifted by now, a hand's width across the sheet.

The man is running. He checks his watch while he "relaxes." He thinks about his calendar, about the first appointment of the day. The fullness of his day would take his breath away if he let himself think about it. Instead, he thinks about the checkmarks he'll tick off today.

She knows the man who runs, the man who counts. She knows him all too well. He's inside her too. She has her own lists, the kind where another task gets added before she can make that final check mark. She runs too — not through a forest or along a beach, but between office and daycare and supermarket.

But not today. She closes her book — not because time is up, but because it's enough, for now. She swings her legs over the edge of the bed and breathes in deeply. The smell of coffee has, by now, become coffee with a hint of cinnamon. Today, the minutes and the hours are hers.