Twilight draws the sun down behind Big Creek Hill just before six. A black Blazer crosses the concrete slab of a bridge, slowing to make the first driveway to the right.
The engine chugs into silence. The door slams shut. Keys rattle against brass. A polished oak door swings into the slightly dark kitchen.
"Evening, Cat," Joe says.
He reaches for the overhead light's pull chain. Pen, notebook, camera bag drop amid the clutter of yesterday's magazines and bills on a meager table.
Cat sniffs in slightly interested greeting. Slinks off.
Hours slide through the night like a clock stuck in a VCR fast forward. Routine passes quickly -- food, bills, toothbrush, remote control, bourbon, remote control, more bourbon.
Cat stretches, uninterested. Again.
Ringing of the wall phone breaks the lamplit silence much like a fumbled glass at the sink.
For a second, Joe sits, dazed, then crosses the hall, liter bottle in tow to interrupt the third ring.
"Hello? ... well, hi Katherine," he says.
Can she hear the amazement in his voice. Or is it the bourbon thinking?
"Your up late ... un hunh ... no, just sitting here watching TV ... Discovery channel I think ... What? ... Me, too," he says, shaking the bottle lightly near the receiver.
Both laugh quietly.
The clock hands spin again, yet slower this time. Conversation flows from work, friends, futile attempts at philosophical debate, then ebbs into long pauses.
Whether the bourbon's intoxicating fumes or the unspoken dreams slowed the night, Joe never really knew. Like sheet music, notes of time danced to a score written by an unseen composer, rising, falling and filling the air ...
"Mmmm, I can just taste that bourbon," she said, breathing softly.
"Wish I could give you a sip."
