Morning in New York is aggressive.
Light does not seep.
It strikes.
Through the gaps in the heavy curtains.
Sharp.
White.
Demanding.
I wake up.
Before the alarm.
Before Marcus.
Before the city fully wakes.
The bed is warm.
Marcus is beside me.
Breathing deep.
Arm thrown over his head.
Exposed.
Vulnerable.
Trust.
I slip out.
Quietly.
Feet on carpet.
Thick.
Soft.
Silent.
Bathroom.
Door closes.
Lock clicks.
Privacy.
I turn on the water.
Shower.
Hot.
Steam.
Washing off the travel.
The hotel.
The previous day.
I stand under the spray.
Let it hit.
Shoulders.
Back.
Neck.
Tension.
Melting.
Draining.
Gone.
I dry off.
Look in the mirror.
Face.
Clear.
Eyes.
Steady.
No fear.
Just focus.
Dress.
Black trousers.
White blouse.
Simple.
Clean.
Profess
