The Hour of Midnight

A short story

The clock hands at midnight struck my mind like a gentle, sensible blow, a soft reminder to lay down for the night. Such things as time may be a man-made construct; yet, our biorhythms follow it closely, understanding the turn from day to night. In truth, night had already followed us inside, lurking at the edge of our festivities until, gradually, it crept among us and overtook the resolve of those present.

The motivation to drink and be merry, of course until sunrise, waned as darkness engulfed the windows of our small flat. One by one, folks drunkenly laughed and hugged each other, and left, returning to their little lives away from the really, very small flat. I laughed and hugged as well, holding on as best I could — a rather homesick 23-year old — to the warmth and community of those I called friends.

Such a warmth must never be let go of, not ever; instead; it must grow in your stomach and down into the depths of your heart, blossoming into security and interconnection. For, truly, what more could we possibly want then that feeling in our stomachs after a night such as this? What more could we wish for indeed? Perhaps, there was nothing I could have wanted from that moment, or from any future moments after, but fate was weaving a surprise for me that night.