It always happens late at night, when you’re laying in bed, trying to get some sleep before the big meeting, the early class, the long drive, the whatever. The window is cracked because it’s too hot, but the air drifting in past your head is too cold. The fan is pointed the wrong way, but you don’t want to get up and change it, because then you’ll have to start all over. You lay there and you think about the window, the fan, the interview, the long shift, the big game - everything but the thoughts that bring sleep. Some people call it insomnia; I call it my life.

That’s when you sit up, light a cigarette, and turn on the table lamp. Maybe you turn on the TV, open a book, turn on the stereo, etc. In the end you finally get up and start the coffee machine, stumbling through the rest of the day in a daze as your exhaustion causes you to utterly ruin the presentation, the exam, the job, whatever it was that kept you up all night worrying. Then you get home, collapse into bed, and stare at the ceiling with the window open a crack and the fan pointed in the wrong direction. That’s when your life changes.

I had just sat up, lit my cigarette, and was reaching for the table lamp when the knock at the door came. A dozen thoughts ran through my sleep-deprived brain, searching for a reason why someone would be on my doorstep in the middle of the night. The questions continued as I made my way through the house in my robe. By the time I made it to the door, the questions had slipped happily away into my subconscious, and I was perfectly content to turn the handle and see what would happen. When I opened the door that feeling of contentment vanished in a hurry.

It wasn’t the police, the cable company, the Jehovah’s Witnesses, or any of the usual annoyances. I opened the door and there she was.

The way she stood there on the front step was entirely unremarkable, but I was transfixed anyway. She just stood there for a moment, and turned back toward the street. The way her dark hair swayed past her shoulder as she turned, beckoned me to follow. I trudged down the walk, still dazed from so many sleepless nights. When we reached the black sedan by the curb, she motioned to my face, and I knew she wanted me to put out the cigarette hanging limply from my lips. I dropped it to the ground, stepped on the glowing tip with my sandaled foot, and slid into the passenger side.

Inside, she lit a long, black cigarette with a cheap lighter and put the car into gear. Her driving was at first erratic and frightening, but soon became the norm. The towns we drove through were unfamiliar, but they all felt like home. We stopped by an all night diner and I had the best meal I’d ever tasted.

We didn’t talk; there was no need for words, not for us.

We drove on for what seemed like hours, the lines on the road eventually blurring together. Occasionally we stopped for gas or coffee and I’d light a smoke, and then drop it to the ground as we moved back toward the car. When we got inside, she would grab another long black cigarette from her endless supply and light it up.

Sometime between late night and early morning we stopped the car in the middle of a small town and got out. We walked up and down the streets, peering into closed storefronts and darkened restaurants. We saw some kids skateboarding in a park, just hanging around in the middle of nowhere, wasting their night. We watched these empty shells, children without a past or future, destined to endless nights of driving up and down the main drag, sitting outside the movie theatre, hanging out in Denny’s, doing whatever.

Every night is the same. These kids will end up hanging out in the park until the cops come, I’ll end up staring at the ceiling, and someone somewhere will end up sleeping. Then in the morning we’ll fall back into society, back into the flow of things. Makes you wonder what would happen if the night never ended.

The sun was starting to peak up over the horizon when we finally made it back to the car. I dropped my cigarette onto the pavement and stepped in. She got in next, but didn’t reach for her long, slender cigarettes. Instead she looked me in the eyes for what seemed like the first time in forever, and stared into me. We stayed like that for a long time, long after the golden rays of sun started to pierce the windshield and people started to walk the streets. The night was ending, and the next day, same as the last, was taking hold of us. Even as time marched forward, it seemed as if things were slowing down. As the stare continued, I felt the need to leave the car, to get far away from this place, away from her.

Here I am now, fumbling with the door lock, finally using two hands to free myself. I turn away from the sedan and start down the street, stumbling over my own feet. There are people walking on the street now, starting their day as the waitress, the cook, the cashier, the whatever.

I turn back for one more look, and that’s when I hear the shot. She’s standing there, holding the jet black handgun trained on my form. I fall to the ground, not understanding, not comprehending, not accepting, only observing. The sun is even higher in the sky now, and as she steps forward to hover over me, the dark strands of her hair cut into the bright orb as they flutter in the wind.

It seems like she stands over me for a long time, just continuing that timeless stare that started in the car. It feels like I left it years ago, but in reality it happened a matter of seconds ago. In reality, we had always been staring at one another, communicating without words, we just didn’t know it.

In time, satisfied, she lifts the gun and finishes what she started. On the pavement of a small rural town, awash in the glow of the morning sun, I sleep.