The Second The Clock Strikes Five

One in a line of many, clutching phones, staring into the dank and distant void of the town. 17:12. I'm early. That's OK. It's not my fault, I'll blame the bus being early. Shit, I really need the bathroom. No, no, no - what if he's coming? I can't disappear into the store. Plus, they're for customers only, and I can't even afford to look at the items in that store, let alone actually purchase one. I'll have to hold on. 17:13. I'm alone, and in this town, you can witness a mass exodus the second the clock strikes five; suits and aprons, buttoned up against the driving, gritty rain, power-walking to the underpass and their exit. You can watch as the night-people come out of the shadows, hounding a lost stranger, tapping shoulders and pushing into faces, the second the clock strikes five. It used to be a joke, but standing here I truly believe that every joke is derived from a truth.

17:15. There's a group in front of me, pierced and cloaked and noisy; could he be one of them? A gentleman in a patched parka walks past, too close for comfort. Prickles on my neck that aren't from the elements. I need a cigarette and I don't even smoke. Something to do with my hands, besides endlessly checking the minute digits creeping round the clock. I said about 17:15. About. There's flexibility in that. The phone starts to vibrate in my glove. Don't look at the name, that only tempts fate. I answer, but obviously something else offered fate something it couldn't refuse. It's not him. My voice is cheerful, my eyes are stinging, the familiar voice on the end of the line offers nothing but an undertone of condescention. Everything is fine. I said about.

One by one, my companions leave, partnered off or given up, they have other places to be. For the next ninety minutes, I do not. In an alternate reality we meet and it is perfect. I see him coming, and we brush lips to cheeks. He takes my gloved hand and we wander through the town; no one stares, no one approaches, it's just him and me. We don't even need to talk. In this reality, I talk to myself. Whisper. A mantra pours from my lips smoothly, as if I've done this before. Of course, I have. Once. Please, let it be OK. Please, let him come. Please, let everything be OK. There's no answer to the ringing tone. Once, twice, three times unanswered. 17:28. The glass is cool against my forehead, sending a shiver down the hunched curvature of my spine. No one taps my shoulder, no one smiles embarrassedly. No one, except me, as I wander back to the bus stop. A fire engine passes, sirens wailing. An ambulance follows suit. He could be dead. There's always that.

For your own good

I told you I would. Already those familiar feelings coming. Why don't you get it? I can't expect you to understand right away, but still I can't stand you because you don't. Why I'm listening to sad songs even though a little river is coursing down my cheek, why I keep reading the same story over again because it makes them flow harder. Why don't you understand? I don't myself, but why can't you? I need someone to. There's only one person who can, why can't you be them? I need someone, right now, to be here and get it. I want it to be just like that night again where I cried for no reason, or just because I was so damn tired, and someone just held me in their arms until I feel asleep. It felt so good to be like that, what I wouldn't give to be in love again. I don't even want them anymore, I just want to feel that way. Why does it feel like I never will again? I can't imagine it with anyone else. Why do I need to be in love? Why does this limbo hurt so much? Why am I helping myself cry? I want to make love to someone again and hold them afterwards, and for it to mean something to us both, because it's us. Why do I know already that it won't be you?

Daddy

Just sitting by the window. Staring out. I know you can only come from one direction but like in any movie, where logic doesn't count, I look both ways. A car comes past every minute or so, with enough space in between so you can actually hear their engines coming down the road. Each time that noise resounds through the paper-house walls I leap off the sofa and press my nose to the grime. My face looks like it's been pressed into the dead ground outside, by now. I haven't looked at the clock. I don't want to see how late you are. This way, the time is only passing in my head.

Another rumble, another leap, another milimetre of dirt added to the collection on the tip of my nose. Your nose, or so I'm told. At least recently. There's a break in the traffic. I wait for another rumble, the engine grinding within the case, the tyres crunching on the asphalt. The only noise is the void ringing in my ears. Silent white noise. And the slow ticking of the clock that I can't bring myself to look at. The scrap of paper in my hand is the only clue to you. I unfold it, minding the tears that run through it, this mangled scrap that has seen the palm of my hand, the space under my pillow, the hollow of my jewellery box. It feels so smooth under my fingers, worn to its fibres. These few numbers, fainter now than ever, I punch into the keypad and wait, my finger poised over the screen so I cannot see the hour. I wait, the ringing droning into my head. Ring. Ring. R- a click and a sob. One I hear. One, I can only assume that you do, as what I can only assume is your voice rings out.