With my tattered pajamas and perplexed hair, I drank my cold coffee with my other hand. I let the heat of the sun’s rays sink into the brittle skin of my face. I flipped the newspaper I was holding, searching for some edible words.
My stomach churned and I drank the last drop of my coffee. “Where’s the bacon, dear?” I did not look up from the swiveling letters of the print. “I would be late for my work, dear! Where’s the bacon?”
When nobody answered, I stopped reading the paper. I looked around my lonesome apartment. “Maybe eggs?” I whispered.
I picked up the remote control and turned on the television. The 80s-music blared and I dove into some nostalgic paths. I retrieved the newspaper. I read the news today, dear, so I must be doing something other than work.
But I left the television on to take care of my grief.
WORD COUNT: 153
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