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In re early morning episodes

The night is young at 12:22. She looks out the window while everything is at pause, while the silence - this silence - cannot be construed as an acceptance or a refusal, just a statement of fact. The lights left opened in neighbor houses comfort her, for it just means someone else is up at this hour, waiting for something just as well, just as much. Maybe they're waiting for answers too: to a homework, to a person, to a feeling. Maybe they too are bothered, or tired, or distressed. But then she realizes some people sleep with their lamps on, and suddenly the people behind those windows are no longer there - and she is alone again. She counts the hours she still has left before day breaks and takes the silence as a yes, a yes to finally saying good night, to this, to now, to an unrealizable future.

When she realized what her hands were doing and where they were going, she stopped, for what good would that do? She was touching the seat belt, the buttons, the door, (not him, no longer him), in hopes of still finding herself in this passenger seat she used to call her own. And then after a few more minutes of nervous fiddling she got what she wanted: the perfume was still there, perfectly enclosed in its box inside the glove compartment. 

She looks at the mirror and she sees a different person. "You look anguished," a friend said last night, as an endearing insult. Somehow she hears the mirror saying the same thing, only with much resolve, and less humor.

She looks at him, on the floor, and he is not looking back, for he is sleeping, he is away, he is somewhere else she couldn't hurt him. Maybe that's where he should stay, and maybe that's where she should want him to be. But she looks at the empty seat beside her and all she can think of is, What's taking so long?