Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 11

[I ground every word of this section out of a chunk of solid granite, using nothing more than my fingernails and a grim determination.

[In other words, writing this section was unbelievably hard. I'm not sure why, but it was, and then some. Ah, well. Plan on more pain and suffering and writing joy tomorrow.]

When Bradley woke up, he felt good. He narrowed his eyes and looked at the dark ceiling. He never felt good when he woke up. He hadn't done any official sleep studies, but he was suspicious that he had some kind of skinny-guy sleep apnea, and that he'd stop breathing in the middle of the night. He was at least positive that he snored, and that he woke up every morning with a stuffy nose. No 'blissfully arising into the lovely morning' for him. Was that part of a poem? He was probably making it up. He supposed that was what people did when they felt good, waking up spouting poetry.
    What time was it, anyway? It was still dark out, which was unnerving enough. He'd certainly dabbled in waking up early, but it wasn't something he'd ever stuck with for very long. He glanced at his alarm clock, with its alarm that he had never set. He hadn't made the purchase--his mother had, more out of a sense that she ought to buy it for him and not with any genuine hope that Bradley would use the alarm portion.
    Five-thirty. Now it was five-thirty one. Bradley blinked at the clock through surprisingly un-bleary eyes. He distinctly remembered falling asleep not much more than five hours ago. How could he possibly feel this good? How could he be awake at all?
    Bradley closed his eyes out of a sense of duty. Then he opened them. Then he rolled out of bed and walked to the closet. Sleep was not happening. Was it stress? He didn't feel stressed. Worried, maybe, but not much. At least, not as worried as he'd been last night, and that was just worrying about the lady with the peanut allergy. It hadn't even occurred to him to worry about how he was going to pay rent on this shag carpeting. See? There was another thing he ought to be stressed about, and he simply wasn't feeling it. He felt great. He felt like thinking about some kind of physical exercise. Maybe he'd go look at an advertisement at the YMCA for some sport he'd never actually participate in.
    But what to do now? Even on days when he had a job, Bradley's plans for the day didn't start until at least nine in the morning. Three-and-a-half hours of limbo. He'd start with a shower.

    Bradley showered.

    Three hours and seventeen minutes of limbo. What could he do? Reading a book was always an option, but he found himself bouncing on his toes. Apparently his body wanted to go someplace. Did he need a jacket? He'd take one, and a hat, too. He considered something with ear flaps and discarded the idea. He'd just pull on a knitted cap and, if necessary, stretch it down. (You never knew who you might meet, especially at around six in the morning.)
    Bradley found himself at his door, his keys in his pocket, ready to go but with no idea where he was going. Breakfast? Why not? Losing his job was the perfect time to celebrate--but nothing too extravagant. Maybe the bagel place on the corner. He locked the door behind him and took the steps two at a time.
    And almost ran into Olivia.
    "Oh. Hey. Sorry." Bradley grimaced, then wiped that off and replaced it with a smile while trying to hide how distressed he was that, in one phrase, he'd summarized his life to this point: Oh. Hey. Sorry.
    "Bradley?" She looked shocked. Shocked and beautiful, in a curvy, well-fed way.
    "Yes. Present. What's up? Been jogging?" An incomprehensible activity, jogging. It was like playing ultimate frisbee, but without the frisbee. Or the fun.
    She smiled, still looking puzzled. "What was your first clue?" she asked.
    "Well, you know," Bradley gestured from her lightweight running jacket down to her running tights--nice legs, but don't stare, don't even linger--then back to her braided hair, "You look the part. Do it often? Jogging? And looking like you jog?"
    Olivia laughed. "Both, actually." Then she stopped talking and just looked at him. Bradley resisted the urge to check behind him to see if there were someone significantly better looking back there. He swallowed.
    Olivia finally broke the silence--that interminable, five second silence. "Bradley?"
    "Yes?"
    "Did something happen?"
    How could she know? Did he look different? He knew he felt different, but he didn't think Olivia had ever paid enough attention to him to notice any subtle changes. Was there something obvious? Did he cut himself shaving? No, he used an electric razor, and, come to think of it, hadn't actually shaved that morning.
    He stalled for time. "Why do you ask?"
    She raised her eyebrows and glanced at her watch. "It's not even six yet."
    "Does that matter?"
    "I've never heard you awake before eight, usually later."
    Was that a problem? Did she only like early risers? "I guess I usually have work late at night. And stuff. Or I'm just a night person. Night owl. That seems like a redundant phrase, doesn't it? Night owl, I mean. But, actually, some owls, like the burrowing owl, are diurnal. Which is the opposite of nocturnal." Bradley stopped talking. Then, in spite of himself, started again. "Do you like owls?"
    "Owls?"
    "Owls."
    Olivia looked amused and confused at the same time. "I guess."
    "There are even some pretty freaky ones," said Bradley. "Like the Southern White-faced Owl. It goes from cute to psychotic in a heartbeat. Pretty awesome, actually. It's on the internet. Also, not everyone knows this, but owls are creatures that are naturally sensitive to divine power. Like angels. Which is why owls live so long. And angels."
    "Fascinating," said Olivia.
    "I'm talking too much," said Bradley.
    Olivia shrugged. What did that mean? Was she agreeing that he talked too much? That was probably it. Or she didn't care. Either one was equally bad. Either one was equally expected.
    "I'm off then," said Bradley. "Getting breakfast."
    "Have fun," said Olivia, turning back to her door. Then she was gone and the door was closed and Bradley was alone in the stairwell.
    "I like your hair," whispered Bradley. "Also, you listen to cool music. Unless that's your roommate, but either way, it's still cool. And did I mention that you're probably perfect?"
    He turned and walked down the stairs and out into the chilly morning.