Chapter V — Broken Clock

January 3, 2010 — 2:04 AM

The kitchen smelled faintly of burnt toast and old coffee. A single lamp on the counter cast a soft yellow cone of light across the small table, catching on the cracked glass of the analog clock that hung crooked above the sink. Its second hand ticked in stuttering bursts, like it was struggling to keep up. The front door opened with a soft squeal. Maria stepped inside, shaking the cold from her shoulders. Her nurse’s uniform was half-hidden beneath a heavy coat, and her hair was pinned up hastily. She set her keys in the chipped ceramic bowl by the door. “You’re late,” Martin said from the table. His voice wasn’t angry, but it wasn’t casual either. The kind of voice that wanted an answer. Maria shut the door behind her. “Had to stay after my shift. Charting ran long.” Martin leaned back in his chair, studying her. “You always have an excuse.” Her eyes flicked to the coffee pot. “You’ve been up awhile.” “I don’t sleep much when I’m waiting to hear if you’re coming home.” He tried to keep it light, but it landed heavier than he meant. Maria poured herself coffee without meeting his gaze. “Don’t start.” “I’m not starting. I’m asking.” He gestured toward her coat. “You’re still wearing that. Where were you really?” She sipped, watching the steam curl between them. “I was at work.” “You said work ended at eleven.” Maria finally met his eyes. “Martin—” “I’m not a kid anymore,” he cut in. “If you’re doing something dangerous—” She set the mug down, a little too firmly. “Dangerous? Where do you get this stuff?” He shrugged. “Maybe from the phone calls you take in the other room. Or the way you leave without saying where you’re going. Or how sometimes you come back looking like you’ve been somewhere you shouldn’t.” The clock ticked between them, louder now. “You don’t understand everything, and you don’t need to,” Maria said, softer but no less certain. “Some things aren’t for you to carry.” “I already am carrying them,” he said. “You just won’t admit it.” For a moment, her face shifted—something like regret, quickly shuttered. She picked up her mug and walked to the window, pulling the curtain aside to glance at the street below. “You should get some sleep before morning,” she said finally. He stood, grabbing his hoodie from the chair. “Sure. But one day you’re going to have to tell me the truth.” Maria didn’t answer. The curtain fell back into place, cutting off the glow of the streetlight. The clock gave another uneven tick, marking time neither of them could slow.