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Elia isn’t in bed when I wake in the morning, and I’m
beginning to doubt she ever went to sleep. It’s 9:45, sunlight
filtering brightly through the thin curtains, and although I
don’t have anything specific on my schedule until mid-
afternoon, I was hoping to wake up at eight to get through
some of my reading. Nothing like starting off the day behind.

I pause before pulling open the bedroom door to stare at
myself in the mirror hanging on the wall. I look tired. My hair
is a mess; I don’t even remember the last time I got the split
ends trimmed. There are dark circles under my eyes. My lips
rest in a slight frown instead of a neutral position when I’m
not concentrating on them. I pull up my shirt and turn
experimentally, looking at my stomach. I’m losing weight, but
it’s not making me look good, just skeletal. I was always fairly
slim to begin with, but now I can see my hipbones, my collar
bones, jutting out in too much definition. I feel like I’m fading
away. Graduate school has not been kind.

I turn away from my mirrored self and open the bedroom
door. Elia is asleep at the kitchen table, using a small stack of
books about the Civil War as a pillow. The hurricane of last
night seems to have been condensed into little towers of
closed volumes, a city of skyscrapers sprawling over the worn
wood. I consider waking her but decide she needs her sleep,
wherever she ends up getting it. I turn the coffeemaker on as
quietly as possible and start hunting through the fridge for
breakfast.

I’m not quiet enough. Elia stirs and sits up, rubbing her
eyes. “Mm,” she says. “I’ve got to stop falling asleep on my
books. I’ve got funny lines in my cheeks from the spines.”

“Good morning. You should maybe try keeping to a more
normal schedule,” I suggest.

“Normal schedules are overrated,” she says, standing up
and gathering the books into a pile. “I do have class in a few
hours, though, I’m glad you woke me. Thanks.”

“Coffee?” I say, as the coffeemaker clicks off.

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