Time Zones

What made him approach bedtime with a sly comfort was the fact that perhaps at this same fine hour she might be doing the exact same thing as him...sipping on bourbon.

The beauty of time zones is she could rise in her early state and give him a call and wake him...hear his raspy husk as he emptied the cobwebs in his mind...her bright early morning voice full of vigor and awakeness...and he would imagine her beside him and he would tell her so...and in the cold quiet of her car in a rising dawn she could likewise imagine.

There was a slight window when in fact they could be enjoying bourbon together with such distance in-between...maybe 8pm Eastern, 11pm Pacific....each hour making it harder to coincide.

And if the time slipped past 9 pacific he knew she was asleep...and that gave him some comfort.

Sometimes he could not tell where she started and where the bourbon ended...both gave him such solace....

when together it was the perfect elixir...she and the glass of spirits the color of her eyes...

But when apart he understood the riptide current of her...the pull...the drowning sensation. 

She was as much a part of his day as an hour...she may have become her own time sense...when he thought about her...when he didn't....candidly if she were to be compared to a time measure it would probably best be measured in minutes as there was no such thing as an hour length when he didn't think of her.

So she rendered time zones moot...they didn't matter.

Rather, he filled his day with thoughts of her...spontaneous...or sometimes logical via a text or email...
Like a sun that you rise to and notice but throughout the day it's just there...you don't seek it...you know it's around...but there is a part of you that yearns for it, particularly in fall and winter...and seeing it reminds you of it.

That was her.

She was there...even if only in his memory...every few minutes or so...and even closer with every sip he took.