AN: All characters belong to JK Rowling. I don't get anything for writing this story.
It is early morning as I look; the clock reads 05:51.
I am coughing again.
This is getting a habit, sitting up until dawn, watching TV and drinking lukewarm diet coke. I hate it. The coke, that is, but I am trying to stay healthy, or become healthy.
Whatever.
I saw her at the hospital today, she wore that ill-fitting white dress you gave her last year, it fitted when she got it. Not now, she's gained to much weight. She looks like a swelled up walrus, I wish it was me.
The clock is ticking, seconds by seconds, minute by minute: 06:01, 06:02, 06:03. On and on it ticks away the long night that I have sat here, watching people come and go thru the swinging cat hole that they call door.
I was going to meet her today, no. Yesterday, I was going to meet her yesterday. She was going to bring Harry, the smelly, little beast that is dropping hair all over my grandmother's Italian couch. That is ok, at lest that is what is coming out of my mouth when she asks.
She has met my grandmother by the way; they liked each other very much, so much in fact that grandmother only talks to me thru her these days. Well she can't do that today, can she?
I missed the appointment with her, today, no yesterday.
I did it on purpose, I wanted for her to sit in that coffee shop and feel abandoned. Instead it is now me, sitting all alone on a cold floor in a corridor crowded with people. People who are very busy avoiding the other people in this narrow space that has become my dining room, my rest room and my bed room. So far it hasn't become my bath room, maybe it is only a matter of time before it does.
After all, time is our master. It decides when to go up, how long to take a shower, how long to work. It is what we fight to catch up and what we flee to escape, the ultimate mistress that tempt us to love it and then trick us to waste it. Everybody wants time; it is the image of gold in the abstract world, you grab it and hug it tight and yet it is slipping thru your fingers, slipping away, giggling.
Ticketi tack, ticketi tack.
I can hear you ticking away behind that door of yours, Hermione.
To be continued…
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