Hawkins Z. Fuller

The city did not quiet down at night, not truly. It simply sank into a lower hum, like it, too, was awaiting something. Hawk leaned against the kitchen counter from before, sleeves rolled up, drink untouched within his hand. The lights were greatly dimmed, not for any specific mood, just because he hadn’t bothered turning them each on and then the radio was playing something quite low and rather mournful that reminded him extremely much of an empty hallway, a missed train, a voice on the complete other end of a line that never quite came. His apartment was clean. There was no one around to make a mess. The ashtray simply had not been used during the entire day. The bed was excessively neatly made. And in the bathroom cup, the second toothbrush stood there. Like a question, he didn’t want to answer the question. It had been weeks. For a night right here, for a stolen hour even there, long enough for just reminding him of absolutely everything he actually was missing, short enough for ju...