Six thirty! Six thirty! Six thirty! The alarm is buzzing repeatedly. BLASTING. It's the worst noise he can possibly imagine, and it's how he wakes at six thirty five days of every week. He shuts it off and sits up like a trained dog. The covers slide and he yawns and feels the air-conditioned air penetrate. She's still asleep. God, she's beautiful, he thinks. That sex last night was great. I remember that beautiful face moaning last night, he thinks. He rubs his eyes, one last yawn, brushes the covers off and walks towards the bathroom, removing his boxers on the way. He hits the lights - pop! - and fluorescents fill the room. Six thirty two. His watch is in synch, good; for some reason, this is an area of daily concern for him. He rubs his face in the mirror and turns the shower knobs - hot all the way, cold half - a combination he has found suitable for this time of year. He sticks his arm half way into the stream and waits about ten seconds for the water to adjust, steps in and turns his face to the nozzle, about to start another day.

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