Comedy

By Monday, the apartment had stopped feeling like a home and started feeling like a concession cell. Every object sounded to be saying commodity. Not politely. Loudly. The water cleaner hummed with purpose. The demitasse vase caught light and threw it back aggressively, as if offended it was n’t being respected enough. The family tree leaned against the wall, still continuing old arguments just by being. Arjun stepped over a toolbox to reach the lounge and murmured, “ We’re one gift down from demanding a storehouse unit. ” Naila did n’t respond. She was gaping at her phone, scrolling through dispatches that all asked the same question

Then’s the thing about marriages. Everyone thinks they understand them. They do n’t. They suppose an assignation is just paper with a date and a position. It is n’t. It’s a cerebral test disguised as card stock. This particular disaster began on a sticky Thursday autumn when Arjun Malhotra and Naila Rahman approved their marriage assignations without actually reading them. They were tired. Deeply tired. marriage tired. The kind of tired where your brain replaces words with vibes. Arjun glanced at the evidence on his phone. Gold border. Elegant fountain. Floral corner thing. Good enough. Naila jounced while biting on a samosa. “ Looks fine.

Saturday arrived with a reluctant light that sounded to stretch sluggishly over the megacity, conservative in its intrusion, as if testing whether Arthur Bellweather was truly awake or simply featuring. He stirred beneath the wastes, eyes opening to the familiar gleam of the alarm timepiece, its ticking steady and unvarying. “ Good morning, ” it said, calm yet pertinacious. Arthur moaned, stretching his branches designedly. “ Is it ever not morning for you? ” “ Morning is a state of occasion, ” the alarm timepiece replied. “ And responsibility. ” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, the bottom solid beneath him, though he moved

Friday morning arrived like an unanticipated plot twist in the else predictable narrative of Arthur Bellweather’s week. He awoke with a launch, not because of the alarm, which sat faithfully blinking on the nightstand, but because he realized he'd actually slept through his dreams without interruption, a rare and suspicious circumstance. The alarm timepiece ticked steadily, unimpressed, as if noting that he'd eventually admired the meter it had so strictly executed. “ Good morning, ” it said. Arthur moaned, stretching with deliberate care. “ Why do you always sound like a judge? ” “ Observation does n't carry judgment, ” the alarm

By Thursday morning, Arthur Bellweather had grown cautiously confident in his routines, though every morning carried the same subtle undercurrent of suspicion that he might have been caught in an elaborate trick. He awoke before the alarm, as always, eyes flickering open with the awareness that time itself was patient but exacting. The alarm clock sat on the nightstand, softly glowing, its ticking steady and observant. “You are awake,” it said. Arthur exhaled, rubbing his eyes. “I am. No commentary needed.” “I am noting continuity,” the alarm clock replied. Arthur swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, careful not to disturb the