[Editor’s note: “Misophonia is a disorder in which certain sounds trigger emotional or physiological responses that some might perceive as unreasonable given the circumstance. Those who have misophonia might describe it as when a sound “drives you crazy.” Their reactions can range from anger and annoyance to panic and the need to flee. The disorder is sometimes called selective sound sensitivity syndrome.” – from WebMD.]
Feet grudgingly leave warm sheets to wed the cold, hardwood creak.
Water cooler grumble.
How was your weekend? Did you watch the game? colleague banalities.
Evening fitness fumble.
Clydesdale heels thud clumsily on treadmill belts, out of techno sync.
Fading under a duvet, dreams consummate a palpitating heartbeat.
Impatient unison of car horn beeps behind the hesitating merge.
Cadavers with coffee.
Stride drags against tile, a colleague’s slurp of aromatic dark swill.
Cymbals smash in crinkling popcorn bags, a mindless movie soundtrack.
The squeal of cold brake pads cease when the car creeps into its stall.
Should you take a sick day?
Yes, type the email.
I won’t be coming into the office. I quit. Backspace. Delete. Send.
Daytime tv malaise.
Repetitive tweet analyses on every channel ‘til twilight.
Flames flap in the fireplace while sofa swallows body whole, with consent.
Feigned interest in corporate goals gurgling up a parched throat.
Noon cortisol spike.
Upward sentence inflection aggravates the wait for a vegan shake?
Gong bath zen strike.
Deep breathing deviates by the neighbouring roar of a yogi snore.
Loose loonies clang in the dryer, waiting for pyjamas to warm.
Two days off. Eventually. A seizure of alarmed vibration on the nightstand.
Mute button, a small victory.
Public transit pests.
Standing room only for teenage squawking.
Left earbud failing, the static of Morrissey’s contempt wails in one ear only.
A neighbour’s hammer strikes nails in the brain at 8 am.
Scorned scalp buzzed amidst dueling salon dryers.
Power nap revoked.
Nerves on high alert obstruct fetal self-soothe solitude.
Punk distortion in a speechless arena where words cannot be heard.
Mountain peak pre-dawn, Vancouver still asleep in last night’s dress.
Almonds in the palm vanish by grey jay sleight of wings.
Clouds awash with wistful repose.
A few moments left ‘til Monday lifts the veil and we are, again, betrothed.