Time Of Day:
Late At Night
Darkness falls. A curtain of black elegantly draped across the stage of life. The show is closed. Over. Finished. There's a chill in the air, a late night frosty bite which lingers in the air. The woollen gloves keep his hands from freezing and a dull grey scarf is tightly wound around his neck. He pulls a heavy woollen coat tightly across his cold body and makes the journey home. One or two cars zoom by but they are rare and far between. The bright headlights are almost startling in the pitch blackness. Street lamps provide little lighting and he might as well be in virtual darkness. He already is. The walk home is short but his pace is slow, his steps small and tired. He thinks it might be around 3am but he's not sure, he doesn't care. There's a scuffle of a noise in the nearby alley and an instinctual prick of fear courses through his body. Self preservation. A meow escapes and it is only a homeless tabby cat - scrawny, underfed - scrummaging around looking for a meal. He passes the familiar shape of a man huddled in cardboard boxes, a bottle in hand and a snore escaping from his mouth. There's a frostbitten look about the man he passes, another homeless vagabond on the streets. He searches through his pockets and finds a few spare coins. It's an empty gesture. The money will go to drugs or alcohol if it isn't stolen by another or if the man doesn't die tonight. The cold is killer. Either way it's money towards death. He suppose it is a type of charity - accelerating the inevitable destiny to a better place. There has to be a better place. Any place is better than here.
He reaches home. An empty cold apartment. He flicks the lights on creating an artificial brightness. His first task is to on the heater. It warms slowly and when it finally does it heat up little warmth will fill the room but he's at the point where he'll take what is given. He fills the kettle with water and begins to boil water. Then he moves to the bathroom for a quick shower. It has to be quick. He'll have 1 minute of hot water before everything turns cold again. The clothes fall to the ground. His body is toned and muscular, well worked, but it has nothing to do with the luxury of a gym and exercise. His skin is hard and cracking. His eyes are tired. He is tired. The water falls as he quickly lathers soap across his body and then rinses it off. He switches the tap off. 55 seconds. 5 seconds to spare. The towel dries him off and he pulls on a pair of well worn sweats and then a woollen jumper for extra warmth despite the bulkiness. Anything for warmth. The kettle begins to complain and he walks to the kitchen to make himself a hot chocolate. It is the one luxury he makes pains to afford. Hot chocolate with the little marshallows on top. One white. One pink. Foamy and floating on top of the beverage. He takes his mug and brings it to the living room where the couch serves as his bed and the dysfunctional heater resides. He takes a sip of the drink; hot and sweet. It warms his body and for a moment the cold is kept at bay.
"Hot chocolate?"
"What else did you expect, Pace?"
"With marshmallows on the top!! One white. One pink. My favourite! Do you know how much I love you Josephine Potter!"
"Translation you only love me for my hot chocolate."
"Well not just because of the hot chocolate. I also love you because of your brilliant waitressing skills."
"Oh, is that so?"
"That is so."
"Well then, where's my tip?"
Pacey's arm snakes around her waist as he pulls Joey towards him. The kiss is soft and sweet filled with passion and love. She can taste the sticky sweetness of marshmallow and and addictive bitterness of chocolate. He can taste a flavour which is distinctively Joey. Mingled together they become the perfect blend. It is cold outside by the room is quickly warming. The air is electrifying and unbearably hot. Clothes are shed. It is hot and only getting hotter. A trail of kisses are planted across Joey's body. Her hands touch Pacey filling him with an inner warmth instantly. When he finally enters her he is encompassed with heat. They are building their own fire to protect them from the cold. With sparks of attraction and flames of passion fuelled by love it is a fire that quickly grows. Pacey moves slowly within Joey, her legs wrapped around his waist, her arms wound around his neck. He pushes within her deeper and deeper using the arm of the couch to give him more leverage as he enters Joey once again. Outside the wind howls and the rain begins to fall hard. He can feel her muscles contracting and tightening squeexing Pacey as Joey comes closer and close to the edge. Both his hands are clenching the arm of the couch as he continuously penetrates her. Joey nails dig into his back and her teeth sink into the right of his shoulder and her boddy begins to shudder with ectsasy. Her movements are erratic and unbridled throwing Pacey off balance. They fall to the ground limbs entwined with Joey still in the midst of her orgasm and Pacey on the verge of his. His body jerks and they roll across the carpet interchanging positions. In the aftermath they lie snuggled on the couch, her head in sleep as it rests on Pacey's bare chest. He takes a sip of the now cold chocolate drink. His lips fall on various parts of her body that are now inflicted with carpet burn. Pacey pulls a patchwork quilt over their bodies and savours the taste of chocolate, marshmallow and the lingering flavour of Joey. His hand moves down to Joey's, holding it tightly.
The hot chocolate is once more cold. The patchwork quilt is situated over his body. But this time he is alone. Alone except for an old photograph of Joey Potter under his pillow. This time he is cold. There is no warmth. And it is late, late at night but Pacey cannot sleep. Instead his eyes are open and he is wide awake despite bodily fatigue. Instinctively as if his stupid brain has not processed the information his hand reaches out for Joey's. He finds himself grasping onto empty air. Holding on tightly. Too tightly. Perhaps too tight for it to be right, for it to have ever been right. He doesn't know when it all changed or how it happened exactly. It just did. He can't process the past events, it is as if his brain is not programmed to compute the idea of life without Joey. Each day when he comes home he still expects to see her in the apartment waiting for him. It is a crazy notion. Pacey knows this. For one thing, Joey has never even been to this apartment. For another it has been years since he last set eyes on Joey. Years since he set aside his dreams, placed them in various jars, preserved them. He doesn't want to damage his dreams, doesn't want them to be shattered or scarred. They are all he has left. Dreams. Hot chocolate. A patchwork quilt. An old photograph.
The digital clock glows an amber light indicating it is now 4:17am. He's haunted. A haunted mind. And it's late. Late at night. The lights are off. A flicker of red comes from the heater, colour but no heat. On the table nearby sits the half full, chillingly cold chocolate beverage. He shivers and he's cold. He can't get warm. Can never get warm enough. And he's lying to himself again. He knows why Joey left. It is all his fault. Pacey's fault. The eternal screw up. Once again proving his reputation true. Screw up. Loser. As expected Pacey managed to ruin the best thing that ever happened to him. And she's gone. She's been gone for a long time taking the sun and all its warmth with her. He's been living in a perpetual winter. All because he is the thoughtless kind. The type who acts before he thinks. Who goes looking for trouble. And everything is ruined beyond repair. But he can't bear to throw it all aware, a perverse need to hang on. So he's holding on, Pacey's handing grasping tightly onto empty air. It is the only way he can sleep. When he closes his eyes the air transform into Joey's hand and his tired body will finally get the sleep it deserves.
It is late at night. Marshallow sticks to the glass and hardens. It will be difficult to removed in the morning. The hot chocolate is cold and stale. Darkness fills the room. The flicker of red from the heater has long since disappeared. Some time during the night the heater gave a wheezing cough and died. There's the still of early morning cold in the air. The quilt is pulled right to the very top of Pacey's body as he huddles in a ball sleeping. One hand is touching the photograph of Joey, caressing her face even in sleep. The other is holding tightly onto her hand, an imaginary hand. It is no longer late at night. It is early morning. Light ascends. But Pacey sleeps through it all. He will only awaken when darkness falls once again.