At the end of the seventh hour.
Somewhere in a well-kept hidden corner of our existence, there is a realm where a day consists of only seven hours. Four hundred and twenty minutes that even then still need to be shared with tedious humdrums in-between. A tiny universe that only transpires thanks to stolen chances and borrowed pleasures — otherwise ceases. A day where midnights may loop, the sunrise and sunset each occur twice a day during her birth month, and his routine restarts right when hers is about to come to a halt, periodically.
Two persons, each tries their best to warp their concept of time. Constantly making ways for little possibilities to come about despite the very finite period, amidst all the uncertainties. Through little exchanges of heys and how-are-yous, the infinitesimal world persists, fueled by curiosity and perhaps a little pinch of undeclared admiration. With every seven-hour that vanishes, another seven hours materialize the next day, bringing closer yet another uncharted territory for each of them to map out, along with the clumsy anticipation that follows.
The woman was glancing at the idyllic crescent moon that looked like a smiley face from where she lived, all lights dimmed, the clock telling her to lay down and shut any intruding thoughts already. But her phone blinked once and the unassuming pop-up that came from it, no matter how trifling, intrigued her even more than such natural awe hanging in the sky that the universe offered.
She grabbed her device rather too quickly, promptly read the incoming text that sounded full of hopes, and unhesitatingly arranged a sentence to send back. An exclamation mark was added at the end of it in exchange for any emoji, to hopefully indicate not the playful kind of excitement, but rather a cordial one.
Tap, tap, tap.
Sent. Along with the disappearance of the smiley-shaped crescent moon from the sullen sky. What a shame, smiley face, she thought, well, perhaps it’s just the clouds.
But what is this thing hanging on my lips just now?
The man was on his second café au lait of the day, trying to string together his remaining will and enthusiasm to log a couple of more working hours for the day. Five o’clock could not seem to arrive any sooner.
A short beeping tone from his workstation broke the silence, along with a tab of an instant messaging app on his browser that displayed an added number, a much-awaited one presumably. His cursor was already on it. Delighted, but with a careful amount of hopes, he opened the conversation while holding his beige-coloured artisan mug — hot yet not too tense, but the warmth had spread even before his lips touched his afternoon coffee.
The man smiled. She seemed eager with the idea, he thought with relief, and thanked her for the shared enthusiasm, and wished her to sleep well — just like usual. Wasn’t a mundane day after all. He had secretly hoped that the weekend would come a lot sooner, yet for all the strangest reasons.
The man hit the send button while sipping his dose of caffeine, hot yet not too dense.
Oh, I could’ve sworn I didn’t add any sugar. Why does this taste a bit sweeter today?
