Like She Always Did
By Genevieve Lane
Kay woke up at six in the morning, like she always did.
She got out of bed, made said bed, and did her morning stretches for ten minutes, like she always did.
She carefully considered her clothing for a minute, then took the third item from the left from each of the two sections. After that, she went to the bathroom and showered for fifteen minutes, like she always did.
Kay got out and dried herself carefully, like she always did. She combed her long auburn hair until it gleamed and pulled it up into a sleek ponytail.
She slid on her clothes: grey silk pants, cotton purple blouse, mysterious fuzzy socks and the usual female unmentionables. Bottoms first, then tops, then socks, like she always did.
After making sure the towels were straight and the tiles were clean and dried, she pulled out her bandages and wrapped them around her long, pale arms. They hid the scars that twisted around her limbs, like they always did.
She didn’t look in the mirror when she left the bathroom, like she always did. She ignored the razor in the drawer, like she always did.
Kay hopped down the stairs at 6:33, like she always did. She glided into the sunny yellow-painted kitchen and started unstacking the dishwasher, enjoying the clink, clink, clink of the jade green plates being piled on top of each other. She would keep out two for breakfast, like she always did.
At 6:40, Kay would break the eggs into the frying pan, like she always did. She’d sprinkle salt and melt butter next to them while they sizzled, then put two slices of bread into the toaster. At 6:42, she’d take the crunchy toast out and butter each slice, like she always did. She’d slip it next to the eggs nestled onto the plates, two for her and one for her father, like she always did.
At a quarter to seven, her father (he wasn’t really her father, but she’d called him that forever, even before they left the adoption center) would climb down the stairs, trying to straighten out the wrinkles in his white dress shirt and black slacks. He’d always brush his black hair out of his glasses when he saw her at the table, and chirrup, “Good morning!”
That’s when routine went out the window.
Sometimes Kay would ignore him until he was within three feet, when she’d pull him into a silent hug. Sometimes she’d grin at him and ask about work today. Sometimes she’d leap out of her chair and squeeze him until he gasped for breath. (“I don’t mind,” he’d whisper later.) But whatever she chose, he always smiled at her, and kissed her forehead, and told her how glad he was he had found her and how perfect she was, like he always did.
Routine kept Kay sane, but her father made her human.
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