Night Writer.(Kevin Hughes) It had been dark for hours. He already had two cups of tea, listened to an hour of “Oldies Music”, and the soft tones of “Moon River” emptied around the stillness of his apartment. He didn’t bother to turn any lights on. The Night gave him all the light he needed to let him see the words in his mind.

It was almost 2 AM before he sat down in front of his laptop, two beat up old cushions trying to dampen the sharp edges of the old wooden chair he sat on while typing. He turned on the only lamp in the room. It was an old stand alone lamp with a ragged cloth shield around it…the kind of lamp you might see in a turn of the century Piano Teacher’s room.

It sent an oblong egg shaped glow that left everything beyond the keyboard in twilight, and anything past the edge of the table in total darkness. He sipped his tea and started in on his story.

Words came. Some easily. Some…well, he had to wait for a while as his mind lured them out with tasty phrases that made them shine. Some, well, he sent back to wait for another story to tell. A story where those words would be the right words. But not tonight.

“Moon River” had left him on the banks of melancholy…or in an eddy of nostalgia. Vague forms of old loves sailed down the moonlit waters of his late night memory. Forms that were all silvery with contrast but not color- and so he found the words for Romance as a pastel.

A chain, slender and made of small gold loops, held but a single small golden heart. A heart nestled just far enough down in her blouse to feel the beating of her own heart. His fingers slid up and down the chain, with one knuckle pressing against the gentle curve that led down into her bra. She leaned back against the wall…closed her eyes, letting her feelings and trust submit to the gentle exploration that gave a tingle, but not passion.

It was…a caress. Nothing more. Nothing less.

He leaned back from his laptop, pulling the little chain down to turn off the light. Words gave way to a moment in time that didn’t need them. It was long long ago, fifty years or more…but for the Night Writer - it was now.

The tea had cooled. The darkness had deepened. The Night was approaching it apex at Four O’clock in the morning. The hour when Night decides to give into early morning. Only then did the Writer turn the light back on.

He had more words now. Different words. The story had rewritten itself in the dark. Words that had sharp edges, were not muted, snuggling into the story like burrowing into a feather bed on a winter’s night. It wasn’t the story he thought he would write. It was a story he had to tell.

One more cup of tea. The light was gentle, trying not to intrude, hinting that the Night was about to leave for the day. He knew the bright light of day would burn away the words he needed. Sunlight was for life, living, doing, not for building words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, and paragraphs into Stories.

He rinsed the tea cup, placing it in the drainer. He closed the laptop after saving the evenings work. All the blinds were pulled so he could creep into the darkness still available in his bedroom. He would wake at noon to fulfill his daytime obligations. Until then, he would fall asleep to the gentle sound of a golden heart slipping over a series of tiny loops on a chain.

He was a Night Writer.

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