Night's Small Innocence

Two in the morning, the sound of the refrigerator door opening echoes through the house. Taking out the milk I bought yesterday, it occurs to me that I'm drinking milk at this hour not because I'm hungry, but to soothe the self that couldn't sleep. I take a sip and sit on the living room sofa. The streetlight outside lies long across the floor. Watching it, I remember something I said at work yesterday. “I don't see it that way.” The moment I said it, the other person's face stiffened for a second. Looking back now, maybe that wasn't surprise at all. Maybe they were just sleepy. I lie on the sofa and look at the ceiling. There's nothing on it. So why do my eyes keep going there? Probably because there are nights when nothing at all is a comfort. I finish the milk and set the cup on the table. The sound of it landing is unusually clear. A sleepless night ends up making me look quietly at myself. And that looking always ends in an exaggerated innocence. Pretending I'm fine, pretending I got through the night on a glass of milk. But the pretending has grown rather familiar. Until dawn comes, I think this much is enough.