What’s On

Gregor sat on the long, brown sofa, staring at the screen in slack-jawed wonder. The sofa looked new, or would have if not for the one divot where Gregor sat. On the rare occasion that he rose to evacuate his bowels – or empty his pee-pot, something he usually did at the same time – his body’s round shape remained, permanently imprinted, the two large tubes from his legs extending from the pinched crease that rose between his cheeks.

The daily schedule began at six in the morning. This was a hold-over from when the test screen would end, and Gregor hadn’t adjusted to modern times; if he had, he would never sleep. But at six, the morning fluff-news began. This was followed by hours of soap operas and game shows interspersed with re-runs.

Had he been inclined, Gregor would have won the Price Is Right, Who Wants to Be A Millionaire, or any other show requiring any amount of specific knowledge. But that would have required leaving his sofa, and leaving the screen; the former a physical challenge, the latter a psychological impossibility.

Evenings were no more prime than day to Gregor, but he enjoyed the change in aesthetic and tone. At one in the morning, he shut off everything and went to bed, his only exercise for the day, other than walking to the bathroom, being the upstairs climb.

He rose at six the next morning to begin again.

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