The Nights are the Worst

The nights are the worst.
That time of night – could be midnight, or even thirty seven minutes past two. Always before the sun rises, always after the sun sets. In Darkness. With a window open and cold feet. If I get bored there’s always the lighthouse, flashing once, twice, three times, and then a rest. And then once, twice, three times. Think of the next part of a story. Choose between Michael and Nathaniel – who will get Mirabella? Who killed Jesse? How does the tune go for that Joni Mitchell song again? Recite a poem. Make one up. Why did the coffee drop on the word ‘stopped’? Such a perfect frame. What will I wear for our next meeting? I wonder who else has noticed that he wears alternate tops? White with long sleeves or blue with the bulls-eye. The wavy mirrors in his bathroom; the purple and white sheets. Trace the shadows on the wall – long eyelashes, straight nose. Close your eyes. You know it’s because you’re scared of tomorrow.