Her mornings, always chaotic. But today especially so.
Alarm clock? Didn’t ring. Or maybe it did and she didn’t hear. Whatever. Then there were the four glasses of Tuesday night wine. Always regrettable.
Now she just realized her body wash and her conditioner – both empty. But the worst part? Incoming…
She lifted her white fluffy towel from the back of the bathroom door. Already soaked.
“Damn you, Julian,” she whispered.
Suddenly, an unearthly reflection materialized in the partially steamed mirror.
“Get up on time then,” the ghost shrugged. “You know the deal,” he moaned before dissolving back into the ether.
The Weekday One Hundred 