My muscles feel tight and stiff. I curse myself the less I do. I need to stretch, to centre myself, but instead I sit on my couch, in front of my television, still. Even now, I type and sit. There are things I could be doing. I like to tell myself that. A stack of sweaters sits in my closet waiting to be hung up. I could sweep my floors again, or fill my humidifier, but instead I sit. Tomorrow I will have to wake up early, and head to work and begin the waiting, waiting for the afternoon, for the end of the day, for my packages at the post office, to buy my eggs at the co-op. Today, however, I sit.