Clara had not spoken in three days. There was no bet money involved. She had not had dental surgery. She was not in mourning. No words pressed at her tongue. None pleaded with her lips. There was no reason, save the nonexistence of a reason to speak. To part her lips. To form sweet words with the pinkish mass in her mouth. To violate language with her fat, tepid slug. No, there was nothing pleasant about the idea in the slightest.
Without speech, her thoughts came very rarely. She went about her day almost entirely by habit. At five o’clock, Clara woke. At five and five she opened her eyes. Her windows faced the sunrise, and the morning light shone directly on them. But, the blinds were closed. She stared at the ceiling, her body still, collapsed, its weight completely surrendered to the mattress. At half past five, her alarm went off. Vivaldi’s “L’estate III”. It was the default ring. Her slight hand slipped out from under the cover and turned it off. By six and a quarter, Clara had run 4 miles, stretched, and sat down to breakfast of toast and coffee. By six-thirty, she was going upstairs to take a shower.
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