I get off work at 11 pm and normally ride my motorcycle home, take the last meds, mess around with dumb games on my tablet and go to sleep.
But tonight I think I’d rather sleep on the black love seat in an empty conference room on the third floor. The air void of daily planning, the litany of statistics, polite jokes and the smell of donuts.
The conference room at 11 pm is like a furnished tomb. Cement covered in carpet, a long table with chairs where the spirits sit in silence as if questioning the day’s purpose.
It’s the quiet I love. And the odd emptiness. The quiet. The narrow slits of night-glow slicing through the cheep venetian blinds. The door could be open or closed, the analog clock strung up next to the door frame.
And I can choose from two black pleather love seats. One by the window and one near the door. I choose the seat by the door, pull my knees into my chest and press my body, face first, into the cool back rest.
I’d use my leather jacket as a blanket. My backpack a pillow. The sound of the clock hands counting the seconds like the squeak of a rocking chair, the vents breathing their lullaby.
I could sleep like that. Forget showering. Forget makeup or shaving or changing clothes or fixing the weaver-bird nest my hair would become. Just sleep through the scattered quiet graveyard calls and go back to work the next day when my time is up.