crescent [h.s]

51

Aurora Styles

The peace 12 o'clock brings me, is something I haven't found myself discovering an explanation for in my 27 years on this planet. I just know 12 o'clock, midday, the halfway point, has always been the first hurdle I've strived towards ever since I was old enough to process time.

Maybe it's because I was conditioned into eating lunch at 12 o'clock on the dot due to the school timetable, or maybe it's because that's when the "good morning" developed into "good afternoon" which meant the evening was near, and so was the peace I found whilst alone.

Maybe it's because my grandma would always laugh at me when I asked for lunch at 12 o'clock and she told me that's not how it's done in Greece, which would lead me down a narrow path to another lesson on the country of which my blood bleeds from.

Maybe it's because 12 o'clock with my grandma meant it was exactly 12 hours away until she took me outside and held my hand, the pair of us laying on our backs as she spoke to me about the stars, staring into my eyes to tell me I was brighter than any of those balls of fire, but had to work to be brighter than the power of the moon.

Maybe I'll never know the answer, who knows if there even is one. But either way, 12 o'clock is my hour of peace.

I find myself pottering around the house this Saturday afternoon, Harry and Dove on their monthly date. Ours is next week, and it's my turn to plan, but I'm convinced we have done every possible activity you can think of for date night.

I lay back on the dream of our bed, letting my head hit the fluffy pillows, sinking into the mattress, my bones, muscles, body comforted and supported as I stare up at the ceiling above, trying to mentally peel away the white paint to reveal a list of activities we could fill our time and love with.

I come up hopeless, sighing and reaching for my phone, heading straight to google to see if any bots, bloggers or hopeless romantics can aid me in my search.

My fingers tap the screen and keyboard with a light pad from my skin, my nails clicking against the glass as words appear in the search bar.

My job is in the creative field, I'm a creative person, not academic. I thrive when given little limitations, I thrive with the control and trust given to me by practical strangers. My whole job lives and breathes on the requirements to imagine unique ideas, producing results no other mind could.

And yet, I can't think of a single date to take Harry on next week.

Wife of the year award goes to me.

I start to get more frustrated at the ideas my eyes are glancing across; dinner, cinema, hiking, wine tasting. I mean jesus fuck, who thinks going for a hike is a date? A romantic date? With someone you love? Someone you're married to?

Every idea is stupid. Overdone. Predictable.

Not good enough for Harry.

I throw my phone away from me, hearing it land at the bottom of the bed, bringing a pillow from Harry's side of the bed and hugging it to my chest. My eyes start to sting and burn with the build of salty tears filling my waterline before they spill over the edge and drip down my cheeks, curving down my jaw and along the length of my neck, running out of speed and momentum halfway down.

I know I'm torturing myself by taking deep breaths from Harry's pillow, from his scent. But I can't help myself. I've always had destructive moments and aspects to my personality, deflecting is a reflex I still have to force myself out of finding a familiar comfort in.

I let myself cry alone in bed, no one here to disturb me. The sobs escaping me are whacking my chest with the slam of emotion and physical pain from not allowing beneficial breaths to suck deep into my lungs, but I think I've reached the point where the pain feels normal. Where I'm so used to it, it no longer hurts.