The Perfect Morning

The alarm sounded at 5:47 AM.

Not 5:45, which would be conventional, and not 5:50, which would suggest imprecision. 5:47 allowed exactly thirteen minutes for the bathroom, eight for dressing, and twelve for breakfast preparation, with a two-minute buffer for unforeseen circumstances. In thirty-seven years of adult life, I had never needed the buffer.

I did not believe in waste.

The bedroom was dark, as it should be. I'd installed blackout curtains in 2003 after a streetlight appeared outside my window. The county had refused to move it. The county, I had learned, refused most reasonable requests.

My feet found the floor at the same angle they always found it, perpendicular to the bed frame, toes pointed slightly outward for optimal balance. The carpet was six years old. I would replace it in four more.

Bathroom: thirteen minutes.

I did not rush. Rushing suggested poor planning. I washed my face with the same cleanser I had used since 1998, brushed my teeth for exactly two minutes using the timer built into my electric toothbrush, and applied lip balm. Not lipstick. Lip balm served a function. Lipstick served vanity.

I had learned the difference.

My hair required minimal attention. Silver-gray, cut into a precise bob every six weeks at Marjorie's salon on Fourth Street. Marjorie understood precision. She was the only person in this town who did.

Dressing: eight minutes.

The closet was organized by category, then color. Today called for the sage cardigan, Thursday's cardigan, and the khaki slacks with the straight leg. I owned seven cardigans, one for each day of the week. This was not obsessive. This was efficient.

My mother had called it obsessive. My mother had also called me inflexible, rigid, and "no fun at parties."

My mother was dead.

I found this thought arrived often during my morning routine. I did not dwell on it. I simply noted it, the way one might note a familiar landmark on a commute. There was my mother's opinion. There it went.

Breakfast preparation: twelve minutes.

Earl Grey, steeped for exactly four minutes. Toast, medium setting. Butter applied in a single smooth stroke from edge to edge, no gaps, no overlap. A soft-boiled egg, timed with the hourglass I had purchased specifically for this purpose in 1991.

I ate at the kitchen table, facing the window that looked out onto the garden.

The garden was perfect.

I had made it perfect. Over fifteen years of careful planning, ruthless editing, and strategic plant placement, I had transformed a half-acre of suburban chaos into something worthy of a magazine cover. Roses along the eastern fence, three varieties, selected for continuous bloom from May through October. Lavender borders, precisely twelve inches deep. A vegetable patch in the southwest corner, currently producing tomatoes that would make any grocery store manager weep with inadequacy.

The lawn was edged. The walkway was swept. The azaleas were trimmed to exactly three inches from the brick pathway, because three inches allowed for healthy growth while maintaining visual harmony.

I had measured them yesterday. I would measure them again tomorrow.

And there, on the front porch, in the same spot he had occupied since 1987, sat Reginald.

Reginald was a cement pig. Forty-seven pounds, approximately twenty-four inches long, eighteen inches tall. Pink, though the paint had faded somewhat over the decades. One ear was slightly chipped, an incident in 1994 involving a wayward baseball and the Hendersons' youngest. The Hendersons had moved away in 1999. Good riddance.

I finished my toast, checked the time (6:28 AM, precisely on schedule), and carried my teacup to the front porch for what I called, privately, the Morning Consultation.

"Good morning, Reginald."

He did not respond. He never did. This was one of his finest qualities.

I settled into the white wicker chair beside him, the same chair I had purchased from a yard sale in 1989, and surveyed the street. Quiet, as it should be. The Kowalczyks' newspapers were already collected; Dot was an early riser. The Martins' lawn needed mowing, as usual. They had let their standards slip ever since their son moved back home.

"The Peterson boy was speeding again last night," I informed Reginald. "Eleven fifteen. I noted the time. I will be speaking with his mother."

Reginald's painted expression remained serene. He had heard about the Peterson boy before. He would hear about him again.

"And the garden center called yesterday. The new hybrid roses I ordered will arrive next week. I know what you're thinking, another variety seems excessive. But these are specifically bred for disease resistance, and you know how I feel about black spot."

He knew.

I sipped my tea. The morning was cool, the sky just beginning to lighten. Birds sang in the oak tree, sparrows, mostly, with the occasional cardinal. I had catalogued them years ago. Nothing surprised me about this street. Nothing changed without my notice.

This was how I liked it.

After Malcolm left, people had said things. Terrible, well-meaning things. "You'll meet someone else." "Time heals all wounds." "Maybe you should get out more." As if the problem were loneliness. As if the problem were Malcolm at all.

Malcolm had left me for a woman who laughed at his jokes. That was fine. Malcolm had mediocre jokes.

What Malcolm had also said, in that last conversation, the one I did not think about, the one that simply existed in my memory like furniture, was that I was "no fun."

"You're so controlled, Martha. So careful. So precise. Don't you ever just... let go?"

I had not let go. I had let him go, which was different and far more satisfying.

And I had built this. This house, this garden, this life. Every element chosen, maintained, perfected. If that was controlled, then I preferred control. If that was rigid, then I preferred rigidity.

Malcolm was currently on his third marriage, living in a condominium in Tampa, and had developed gout.

I had Reginald.

"Shall we?" I asked him, rising.

Sunday was polishing day. I retrieved the supplies from their designated location in the hall closet, soft cloth, gentle cleanser, a small brush for the crevices, and set to work.

I cleaned Reginald the way I cleaned everything: thoroughly, systematically, with attention to detail. The dust around his ears. The grime between his hooves. The slight discoloration on his snout where the sun hit most directly.

"There," I said when I finished. "Dignified, as always."

He gleamed in the morning light. He had been gleaming in the morning light, in this exact spot, for thirty-seven years. Before Malcolm. Through Malcolm. After Malcolm. He had witnessed my marriage, my divorce, my mother's death, my sister's betrayal, well, not betrayal exactly, more like estrangement.

Reginald did not judge. Reginald did not leave. Reginald simply was, in the way that constants are.

I checked the time. 7:14 AM. On schedule.

The day stretched ahead of me, ordered and predictable. Garden maintenance at 8:00. Grocery shopping at 10:30, when the crowds were thinnest. Lunch at 12:15. Afternoon reading until 3:00. A walk at 4:30, weather permitting.

No variations. No surprises. No "fun," whatever that was supposed to mean.

I gathered my cleaning supplies, gave Reginald one final approving nod, and went inside.

The dishes needed washing. The floors needed sweeping. The azaleas needed measuring.

Everything was exactly as it should be.

It wouldn't last.