Thurman took his first sip and it made him smile.

Phyllis sat silent, but pleased. For all the grief she gave him she liked to see him happy doing things that were normal for a man his age.

What are you going to do today, she said. Make a list.

Yeah, gimme a second said Thurman.

No. The day started an hour and five minutes ago. You’re late. Get moving.

The coffee sharpened Thurman’s senses just enough to muster some kind of defense.

Excuse me, did I invite you into this sacred moment? Can I enjoy ten minutes of my day without anyone demanding anything from me?

Sacred. That’s funny. You’re funny. You had ten minutes. You took 65. You chose sleep. I waited patiently. Make your list. I’m bored.

Thurman ignored her. He thought about reading a book but that was on the other side of the room and he didn’t want to go that far. He thought about making breakfast but he had too many options. He finished his coffee, poured more. Maybe he’d check his email, but he didn’t want to, but neither did he want to sit still.

Thurman sat and drank his coffee.

Fifteen minutes passed before he realized that Phyllis had won. That pissed him off, but also made him smile.

Thurman made his way down stairs to the kitchen at 6 o‘clock. Halfway it occurred to him he had gone out of his way to put on a pair of gym shorts. To walk down the windowless hall in his own home when no one else was awake.

Why do I bother, he thought. I’m not cold without them. Why put five seconds into something unnecessary? I’m still wearing underwear, it’s not like I’d be naked. No one would care.

You’ll scar your children said Phyllis.

Not if they were used to seeing me without them. It would be normal to see their father walking around in underwear. Also, boxer briefs. Basically shorts, just smaller.

He flipped on the kitchen light as if that were the end of the discussion.

Silence.

But I haven’t done that. They’re not accustomed to it, and they’re too old for me to start now. So you’re right, I would scar my children.

Always said Phyllis.

Thurman poured himself a cup of hour-old coffee and looked at the wall.

Thurman Dogood was an average man of average stature, unremarkable in every way.

He lived in an average house on an average street in an average town, where he walked average sidewalks to his average job to do average things. He returned at an average hour for an average evening with his family. Then, he did it all again. And again. And again.

Each day began the same. His wife sound asleep, his children in their beds talking to themselves. Somehow she had trained them to stay in their room until one of the parents was awake.

And so Thurman would wake, ignore his alarm, then relent to his responsibilities and sneak to the kitchen table for five minutes of relative quiet. Sometimes he got them.

He’d once considered himself an optimist and ambitious idealist. But now his life was filled with ordinary and he’d grown accustomed to it. When his first child was born he knew there was no point in fighting for more.

The glory days were gone, or at least paused. At his age, average was fine.