Nothing But the Night

The dark of the night hid his face, the bags under his eyes, all she could see was the faint outline of a tired silhouette, back bent, face down. Resignation was written in his wrinkled clothes, his unruly hair.

-You know, sometimes, sometimes you get a taste of hope. At the tip of your tongue, or maybe like a faint scent that hits you when you think it's gone.

She raised her head, tried to make out the expression on his face. Nothing. The shadows hung over his features like a thin veil, muffling his words. His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.

 

-Then it hits you, the fact that it’s never going to happen, no matter how many solutions you come up with in the night, no matter how many explanations and stories you whisper to the ceiling as the midnight hour passes, leaving room for the most exhausting of time, those long, gruesomely long, hours before the sun rises and you’re left with no one else than yourself. You can call someone, whispering in the night, talking for distraction, talking for comfort. You can bring someone with you home, stumbling into the room with searching hands and breaths smelling like cheap vodka and a promise of relief, whispers of a moment where it all is forgotten. It’s only a small halt in the train of thought passing through the night, as the morning hours threaten with the impending dawn, you will still be left there with the night, and nothing but the night.