11:08 PM.

Another sip of black, black coffee. The flicker of lights from the television is all that illuminates my somber face. I glance towards the door, and back at the clock.

11:09.

Trying to ease my discomfort, I lean back into the couch, taking a deep breath. Staring into the mug held loosely in my hands, its depths are pitch black, and I almost feel like I can relate.

11:10.

My eyes drift back towards the front door, a cold feeling clenching around my chest when it remains still. Closing my eyes, I run a free hand over my face. I stand, and go to wash my mug out in the sink. The murky liquid flows down the drain, my eyes hardly able to make it out in the dark. Standing there listlessly, I dazedly rinse the mug out; rinse and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and my head feels like it’s on repeat.

11:13.

My mug in the other side of the sink now, I stare at the digital numbers blaring at me through the darkness from the microwave display. 11:13. My eyes flick over to the door, and back to the numbers. 11:13. The door. Closed. Numbers. 11:13. Closed door. 11:13.

11:14.

In my mind, I can imagine the door opening, and your face shyly peeking inside. You would have a tentative smile adorning your perfect face, and I would sigh in relief at the sight of you. You’d laugh lightly, and tell me all about how you got caught up in a bunch of things and just didn’t get the chance to come back home.

You’d say how your car broke down in a place where your cell phone got no reception, right before the battery died. Or, maybe you’d tell me about how you bumped into your mother at the grocery store, and she fussed affectionately over you, and you shared stories and she baked you cookies after bringing you on back to your old childhood home. You got caught up in memories and didn’t think—to…call.

11:17.

By the time those numbers read 11:23, I’m lying down on the couch. My limbs are strewn about in an attempt to get comfortable. I try to think of problems at work, and I think about the next time I’ll call back home, and I think about the faces being flashed on the muted television during the eleven o’clock news. I think about everything to try to stop thinking about you. You’re just stuck somewhere, and you can’t get home. Who knows; you could be sleeping at the office—god knows they work you so so so hard. I know you’re just…somewhere.

It’s 11:36, and I’ve flopped over onto my stomach. I’ve taken a fascination to the carpet, fiddling with the fibers between two fingers. My stomach is in knots, and lying on my back didn’t help so I guess squishing it against the couch cushions ought to change things up a bit.

11:37.

11:38.

11:39.

The minutes tick by and you’re still not home. Every single day it’s the same thing; I get home from work at around five – I get settled back in a home and usually have dinner ready by time you get home at around seven. Sure, we have to stay late here and there; but we always call.

“Sorry hon, I’ve got to stay at the office a little longer.”

Or,

“Ah, man, work is killing me—I’ll probably be back by eight, eight thirty.”

Dinner is sitting cold and uneaten on the stove.

11:48, and I’m flipping through the channels; anything to get my mind off you. Just—anything.

12:03, and I can make out little figures in the spackled ceiling. There—that looks like a lopsided dog. And that kind of looks like a bird.

12:10, and it’s starting to get hot in here. I pull my hair into a little ponytail, but it’s not like it helps.

12:29, and I turn on my side, letting my arm fall off of the edge of the couch.

12:41, and I close my eyes, maybe attempting sleep.

12:54, and sleep is dismissed as out of the question.

1:16, and it never occurs to be that you’re never coming back.