Midnight Again

         Had to be the pan-blackened chicken from the night before last. Jack was up since 4 a.m., but that was still 24 hours ago. Now it was my turn. A whole day and a half late. A slow metabolism is what that mousy nutritionist on Seventh Avenue said. She had more questions than answers. And she still couldn’t understand that an hour for her could be like eight hours for me or even visa versa; I didn’t understand it either, but after twenty-odd years (I’m making an age assumption with the time anomaly) I had accepted it.

You just know it will happen, you just don’t know when. Like when I thought I had enough time stored up somewhere to stay at the Brooks Brothers charity event for Blooming Youth, Inc. at least until midnight. And when Jack spun me around on the dance floor that last time, my perspective of my inner time clock was as freewheeling and as careless as our dancing, suspended and oozingly slow. Delicious. Until I spied the large, bright face of the store’s clock read midnight and heard it chime 13 times. Once again, I blew it. I was still on the second floor balcony when my dress began to unravel at the hem. I knew it wouldn’t take more than 20 minutes for the whole thing to disintegrate. I had to get out of there.