Prose, poetry, fiction, and rambles from people with a bit too much time on their hands.

vague silhouette of things occurring at around five am

“My heart snaps in half every time I see her, and I don’t even know her name.” Simon breathes, into the ether of the night.

It’s late enough to be morning. There are glints of azure in the opaque sky, a vague silhouette of the morning. Even her eyes haven’t quite opened yet, even though they eventually would, as they always do. The world will once again see those bright, bright eyes,  taking each increment of time it warms pavement for granted. But for now, the morning’s eyes have yet to open and the night has yet to fall asleep. Those caught in this precious bit of time are filled with a state of pensive thought that’s rare even for the greatest of philosophers. When Carl Rogers decided that psychology should be approached with the belief that humans are inherently more than okay, he decided that at the same approximate time Simon was discussing his life with Robin.

She’s staring into an empty street, taking listless drags from a crushed cigarette and expelling the smoke into the face of cold air. Her apartment was somewhere south. His was somewhere north. If only they were near one of them, preferably her, they could duck in, pour out some wine or whiskey, depending on the mood, and drink the night away.

She looks back to their little alcove, a table, an ashtray, two drinks and three chairs. Tim was there too, but she couldn’t be bothered with dealing with that. Ducking into his home would just lead to another mistake.

“I don’t know what it is about her.” He steals one of Robin’s cigarettes, but doesn’t light it. “It just… happens.” He grabs her lighter. “Without fail, every time I pass her by there’s something about the glint in her eyes or the way the light reflects off of her earrings that tempts me to say hello.” A flick of the lighter produces an orange streak that dances in the almost still air.  He brings the tip closer to the flame.

“But…” Robin nudges, even though it’s gotten to the point where she was searching for a point in all of Simon’s nonsense. There rarely was.

“I get to that point when you’re all but ready to do something. And I do nothing. I keep on walking, and stab another shrimp fork into my skewered heart.” It was a reference to earlier in the night. Reservation for five.

“That’s kind of morbid.” Tim interjects, producing his figure from an ignored lump of dim light. He clutched a cell phone, the screen of it traversing the gradient from bright to dim. Taxi was approaching soon. There were more than two drinks on the table. Robin didn’t count the empty ones.


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