Small Hours — Rib Tee

You were going to bed. You had performed several convincing parts of going to bed, including saying goodnight and being mildly superior about the importance of sleep. Then you remembered the tiny thing.

It would be dishonest to call it work. That is the argument you make while opening the laptop. Work involves obligations. This is simply a small imperfection you have decided cannot be allowed to outlive the evening.

Twenty minutes later you have improved it, broken something adjacent, and discovered an older decision whose author deserves a difficult conversation. The author is you. You close the history with the briskness of someone protecting a confidential source.

The green rib tee was meant for dinner, and dinner was good. You would like to remain the person who went out, ordered something interesting, and had a conversation that did not require a restart. Instead you are sitting very still while a little wheel rotates on your behalf.

From the bedroom comes a question about whether you are coming. You say yes. It is a sincere yes, addressed to a version of the night in which the next attempt works. You have developed considerable affection for that version. You would very much like to meet it.

At last you shut the lid. In bed, someone puts a cold foot against your leg. A problem with an immediate, comprehensible cause. You have missed those.

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