Robyn Duncan


Alarm clock rings. Legs swing out from under the sheets, arms reach out to my bathrobe, grab my shower caddy and head towards the suite shower; running completely on autopilot. I had had the same dream again, haunted by the old man who does laps around Circle road on weekends. His cold, accusatory look, perpetually asking me what I’m doing here, creates a film over my still sleeping, yet somehow open eyes. I let the hot water close them. The shower goes from hot, to hotter, to burning, then suddenly it’s freezing and I scream, “I’m the one who lives here!” The veil is lifted, I’m awake, and it’s another day in paradise. My semester print quota takes the seasonal syllabus blow as “Juicy” by Biggie Smalls plays loud enough to block out the murmurs of the 40 people behind me in the Tabler Center SINC Site. I strut down…