Felicity pulled on her clothes, in the process disturbing the slumber of her cat, Marx, who was making himself quite comfortable on her jeans, which had been dumped on the floor last night.
Marx looked up at her and blinked his eyes before walking from the room.
Felicity took one more look out the window as she brushed her hair. “Well, at least the fog is lifting; perhaps it won’t be such a bad day after all,” she thought.
Felicity put down the brush and took a quick look at herself in the mirror. She was a slight girl, with dark red hair that fell to her shoulders. In her school’s uniform she showed the beginnings of a figure, but dressed as she was today, in jeans and a University of Rhode Island sweatshirt, no one could see that. Satisfied with her appearance, she went down the stairs to breakfast.
“Good morning,” her mother’s voice greeted her as she came into the kitchen. The Stockwell home was an old brownstone in the centre of the city.
The kitchen was small, with a table at one end looking out at the equally small backyard. Felicity remembered that as a small girl, she longed for a home outside the city with a big lawn. But this house was close to her father’s work and there was a park nearby. As Felicity had grown older, she had come to appreciate living in the city.
“There are some waffles for you on the table,” her mother said, without turning from the ageing waffle iron that always burned the first two waffle attempts . “And I set out the real maple syrup because it’s your birthday. There are some cards on the table for you, too.”