Unwritten Hours

It’s 2:36am. The night is deep. The kind of depth that is defined by absence. With a careful lift of the proper switch, an incandescent bulb buzzes quietly to life, outlining the silence of the hour. But the light is too soft to awaken any of the shadows below. It hangs lazily from the roof; an oasis, fading into the unending darkness that surrounds it.

Somewhere, a cat crunches loudly; single bites of manufactured food from its dish. The sound echoes.

The haven is a kitchen table and three chairs. They are wooden: hard and cold. Harbouring no malcontent, their disposition is merely the victim of their midnight fate. Abandoned.

There is a window of double paned glass above the second chair. The air beside it is especially chill. In the distance, street lights diligently pretend for purpose. Red. Green. Red. Green. There are no cars. The road disappears behind another building, untraveled. In hours forward or back, there would be traffic lined obediently to their mechanical authority. It was a particularly busy street, in hours that were not this one. Red. Green.

The sound stops. The cat is fed, or bored with eating, and is gone again.

Silence. A corporeal sanctity. The fridge does not hum. The furnace does not turn on. Even the pipes are hesitant to ferry water to its rightful place.

Tired, a cup of tea is contemplated. Then decided on. The tap fills the kettle with the familiar hollow sound. It reminds of home. Placed on the burner, it makes a garish noise. That too, is comforting. Something in the design of heat, that makes things come alive so. The waiting is a pleasant ritual.

It is lifted a moment after it boils, and a moment before it whistles. The familiar hum of ready water is replaced by a filling teapot. A filled teapot. A nondescript sigh. The neon time on the microwave is noted. It will take eleven minutes to brew, but only five to drink.

The cup is selected carefully. The cupboard opens with a slight click as it detaches from the magnet designed to keep it in its place. Inside, on the floor below, each glass had its place. Transparent to the end, the short had all been lined with the short and the tall with the tall. The mugs instead clamoured for distinction. The ones picked last had been shunned to the back, their strange size or shape making them denizens with the dust. The most popular bore their labels proudly in the front: first to be dirtied, last to be put away. Hidden in modesty was the right one. Lifted with care, it receives only a handle bump from a jealous label on its way out.

The fridge is pretending again. The light is on when opened, brave and bold. But it does not dare to enter the room. The milk is removed without a fight. It never resists being emptied. It never thinks to lament being full.

A spoon stirs certainly. Its edges never leave the sides of the cup, scraping a slow chant as fluids mix. With a single tap on the edge, the project is politely proclaimed.

An absent stare accompanies the full cup at the table. Quiet thoughts are absorbed and the tea gently warms fingertips. The cat is presumed asleep.