Four in the Morning

From a collection of 100-word stories & wonders

A “likely” story, conjured out of my imagination by the 1942 painting “Nighthawks” by Edward Hopper, via Wikimedia Commons. Also, check out The Museum of Four in the Morning.

Nighthawks

At 3:42 a.m. on a sleepless night, listening for a message in the static hiss of my Philco, I recalled Vivian once saying, “Darling, you can call me at four in the morning; I’ll always be there for you.” A goddamn sucker punch to the guts, that memory. I just knew if I didn’t pick up the phone right then and there, she’d be out of my life. So I did. “Viv, it’s me. I wake you?” “Your timing’s off, I’m going out.” “Where to?” … “Penn Station.” “Don’t go.” “Why?” “Meet me at Phillies. Fifteen minutes. … Viv? Hello?” … “Okay.”

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