Scrawlers

It's Wednesday, I should be crawling out of bed, shuffling through the morning toward the office, bleary-eyed and sleepy, until I get to the dark steaming center of my ritual.

"Coffee?"

"No, thanks, Mom."

As much as I need it, I won't take coffee from my parents. They drink coffee all day, every day, their authority seemingly derived from the dark roast. Accepting their offer would come with a tacit understanding that I have passed some threshold into adulthood and maturity.

"Are you sure? You look tired."

"I'm still adjusting to being back home."