The Stain
I wrote this to kill time waiting in the parking lot of a Walgreens for an online photo order to be ready. It was inspired by a conversation with a friend after asking them what their favourite time of day was, and why. I imagine it as a monologue in a play, or something of that nature. Enjoy!
The coffee was stale, and cold. It usually was by this time.
I shed my coat from my shoulders. No need to bother with the hanger tonight. No one will see if I put it o the chair instead. My footsteps echo through the empty hall. A shiver courses through my body, my blood chilled from just a sip of coffee. Outside, a siren wails. Someone is shouting. I furrow my brow, step into my bedroom, kick my shoes to the side of the dresser, shut the door. All outside sounds cease.
I close my eyes, sip from the coffee. More like bitter water by now.
The clock at my bedside reads 12:53, but I know it’s later than that. This clock is slow.
There is no time like this. So late at night that the silence overpowers the noise and the darkness sinks and settles in beside you. The cold seeps into you, but it’s better this way. Something to feel more so than the heat of movement on a long day. That sort of heat reminds me only of what I have to do, what I haven’t started yet, what I can’t waste any more minutes on, what I need to dedicate more minutes towards. But the cold simply reminds me that I am here.
That I am here.
Although tonight, I wish I were here with her. I wonder what she makes of the night, the nights so black-blue that they leave a mark on you. Nights so quiet that you only have to think of yourself instead of answer to other people. A comfortable cold, complete with a cup of chilled coffee.
I wonder about her where I would normally wonder about myself. Mull through things she’s said instead of things I’ve done. Think of what she says she wants to do rather than linger on thoughts of what’s happened to me.
The clock reads 1:00am.
I climb beneath the covers, set the cup on the dresser, do nothing when it galls over and stains the carpet brown. I close my eyes to see her. I take in a breath, feel her as though she’s there. Nights as cold and quiet as these are empty, most times. But tonight, it doesn’t seem that way, and it’s well with me. To want her curled up by me in place of the blue-black night. To be in this space with her, to be in this space waning her.
To have her see the stain on the floor, or the coat on the chair.
