The sight of dawn breaking over the horizon, thought Noa, was one of those pleasures worth losing sleep over. He stood on the steps of his little house, a mug of midnight black coffee in one hand and a bagel in the other. The pale light of early morning sun washed over him like chill water, washing dreams from his mind bringing him entirely into the here and now. For a few seconds, he closed his eyes and tried to sense some warmth on his skin, some sense that the new day would be warmer than the long night.

He’d barely slept, tossing and turning before eventually deciding to give up the ghost and just get up. The cupboards were mostly bare, containing only enough food for a modest breakfast, or several large ones by anyone else’s standards. He’s sat at the kitchen table in the dark, eating and drinking in almost complete silence, hearing only the occasional sound of a forlorn bird or confused fox. When he glanced at his battered watch, he realised he might as well take in the morning sun, given that he’d beaten it in getting up.

So there he sat, sipping coffee that could kill a horse and wondering whether the local 7/11 would be open yet. Being the neo-hippy nature lover that he was, he generally disdained the place in favour of locally grown, organic goodness but needs must when the devil drove away all the food. The only other thing on his mind was how to kill time until 9:00AM, when he was expected at the [I]The Lawrence Theatre[/I] for a company meeting.

A part of him wistfully considered blowing it off, maybe scrounging up a few dollars and catching a bus someplace else. He could go north, lose himself in the woods for a few days, or south, there was bound to be a river or a lake he hadn’t swum in yet. The voice in his head suggesting these things was small at the moment and easily squashed, but he knew from experience that it wouldn’t be gone for long. Without distraction, without action, it grew and grew until he could hear nothing else. It was probably his own fault, he had listened to almost exclusively for many, many years and that was like feeding a wild animal; it only got hungrier.

Thinking of hunger, he swallowed the last of his coffee, wolfed down the last bite of breakfast, stood up and stretched. A complicated series of pops and clicks later, he shook himself off and stepped back inside. [I]Whatever else[/I] he decided, [I]I might as well fit in a run.[/I] Even on a less than fulfilling breakfast, Noa could run a marathon and be ready for more, yet another talent picked up from years of uncertain living. Breakfast used to be a much less certain proposition from day to day so he’d gotten used to working hungry and using the dream of lunch to power through hard work.

The run wasn’t more than an hour or so, just around the neighbourhood a couple of times, but it put some life into his limbs and got the blood moving. More importantly, it moved the day from ‘so early that’s it’s practically still late’ to ‘if you absolutely must’. A few windows were opening, a few lights were flickering on. Some people were already hurrying off to work, some were just stirring because the light was now that off a proper day, though the summer sun rises indecently early.

Noa’s neighbourhood was a mixed bag of poor families that worked manual labour jobs, poor families that worked jobs off in the nearest big city and poor families that didn’t work any sort of job. The houses were cheaply made things, thrown up for the minimum cost available when St. James had last been booming. Now they housed only those spent little time at home, those who couldn’t afford better and artists who would accept ‘fixer-uppers’. He didn’t mind though, it was an excellent opportunity to practise his carpentry and an excuse to wear the messy work clothes at home that he would’ve be wearing anyway.

He was about to leave the house with a tote-bag, intent on refilling his cupboards with as much food as he could carry back, when his mobile buzzed. It was an ancient thing, the sort of Nokia artefact that made people instantly assume you’re a drug dealer and that it’s your burner. Actually, Noa had been using the phone for a couple of years now and was yet to see the point in switching to a more modern one. After all, this one could send texts, make calls and could even access his email account. What more did a man need to communicate with?

[quote=From: Snow White Tan]buy me lunch later
don’t have food need to go shopping[/quote]
With a chuckle, he tossed aside the bag and sank into a battered armchair. He’d rather wait until after the meeting and shop with Ziggy in the city centre (such as it was) than stump off to the local place. She was so direct, he reflected, seemingly unworried about saying what she wanted to do and telling him where to turn up. It was probably why they got on so well, given his more aimless approach to life and disinterest in command over others. That voice at the back of his mind started up again, pointing out that she wasn’t the sort of girl who’d wait for him to turn back up after a sojourn on the road but he ignore it again.

Instead, he killed time around the house for a little while, cleaning up a few pieces of stray wood and hoovering the section of the house where he was gradually repairing the damaged walls. The whole house was something of a project, one he was enjoying, but it did make a near constant mess. When the time came, he stepped out, didn’t bother to lock the door and went into the garage. Sitting therein was the one other extravagance; a beaten up and broken down motorbike he’d taken to calling the Guzzler. He wouldn’t trust it for a cross country trip or anything that required real reliability but it was a quick way of shuttling back and forth between the theatre and the house. And when it broke down, there was always the bus.

Today, however, it cooperated and reluctantly sputtered into life. The trip to the theatre was uneventful, it still being early enough on a Saturday that there weren’t too many cars on the road. He tucked the Guzzler away in the alley behind the [I]Lawrence[/I] and strolled in the side entrance. There was Art sitting on the stage, looking as attractively dishevelled as ever, and Ziggy, standing behind the director with her arms crossed in her signature stance of mild impatience.

[colour=F29700]”Morning glorious leader. And to you too Art.”[/colour]