subterfuge
The alarm rings at 0500. She wakes up and goes to the bathroom, washing her face and brushes her teeth. She washes her hair, then blow dries it. She chooses her clothes with care, depending on her mood. She makes breakfast, and eat it. When she leaves the house, it is always 0836, not one minute early, not one minute later, so that she is just in time for the 0839 bus.
Today is no different. Every step is in place, just the way she likes it.
She got the phone call at a bad time, and long after she hung up she was just sitting there by the phone, dazed. It felt like time was deliberately taunting her, eager to see how long she was to live through this. And there they were, her burnt brownies, another fruit of her failure.
"Genetics is the foundation of our differences," the professor droned on. Mary sat there on her seat, twirling her pen around her finger. She kept on flicking on her phone, hoping that the seconds would tick a little faster so she could get that toastie she was dreaming of.
If only she had listened at that time, things may have turned out differently.