The only place open at 2:30 in the morning was the IHOP on 8th and Sycamore. At that time of night there was only one waitress, one cook, and the coffee tasted bitter. The Stop-N-Go on 18th, just pass the middle school, closed at 1:00 and reopened at 4:00 as the commuters started rolling out onto the freeway. All the grocery stores closed at midnight, and Wal-Mart locked the doors at 11:00--but they opened early too. I knew every night clerk in every gas station and every tired waitress who watched the hours tick slowly by.
They expected to see me every night, and I knew more about their lives than I knew about my own family. They told me as I ate, bought my cigarettes, paid for my gas. They explained their hardships and asked for advice, and I guess they saw me as somebody they could trust. They never asked for my story though, and I never volunteered the information. They never wanted to know why I was the only person in town awake at three in the morning. They never asked why I always came in alone. They never were my friends.
I met a police officer every night in the park. I'd go there to look at the stars and eat my Cheetos and always acted surprised when he would join me on my bench. We exchanged pleasantries. I offered him some chips. He declined. We looked at the stars. He didn't wear a wedding ring, and I suspected he always got the night shift because he was the only one without a family. He never asked after my business either.
One sultry summer night he asked for a cigarette. The air shimmered around us, hot and heavy and it clung to my skin and hair. I put my tongue out and tasted it. Salty. Thick. The heat from the sun had been trapped in the ground, and now it rose slowly to the sky, carrying the deep smell of musty earth and flowers with it. I gave him a cigarette without comment and silently offered my lighter.
"What are you doing out here?" He asked after a deep drag.
"Getting some air," I said, coughing as his smoke floated around my head.
He waved his hand. "Other than that."
I shrugged and fumbled with my lighter. I rolled it over in my fingers and examined it as though I had never seen before. Occasionally a car rolled by, and occasionally a car sped by, and he didn't pay attention to any of them.
"I don't like being stuck in the house," I finally said.
"It would probably be more comfortable inside," he pointed out. "Central air. It must be nearly 90 degrees out here."
I shrugged. "I don't mind the heat." I turned to look at him. "Officer, what's your name?"
"Paul." He dropped the cigarette and ground it out under his heal. "Yours?"
"Stephanie."
"That's a nice name. I used to know a girl named Stephanie..." His eyes grew distant, and he looked over my head at the line of trees behind me. "A long time ago."
"Well...it's a pretty common name..." I said lightly. I had never been interested in having a conversation with him, but now that we were talking it wasn't so bad. I checked my watch--I still had twenty minutes before they expected me at the Chevron on the other side of the park. He moved closer.
"You know," he started slowly, "I...well...I always look forward to seeing you. Every night..." Paul paused and looked away shyly.
"I look forward to seeing you too," I told him. "It's nice to have company."
And isn't that why I went out every night? To find the people who needed my company as much as I needed theirs? Dawn was the worst time of the day for me, because that meant it was time to go home and hide in my room until the crowds dispersed for the night and I could watch them through their well-lit windows, watch as they acted silent morality plays behind lacy curtains.
Paul slid closer and our thighs touched. I looked at his leg as though I had never seen one before. He didn't move though, didn't fidget beneath my stare. I couldn't remember the last time somebody had touched me, and I liked it. I glanced up at his face--his kind, open, sweet face. He wasn't handsome, or striking, or interesting, or even that cute. But it almost broke my heart to see the open honesty, the painful eagerness, in his brown eyes.
Paul sighed. "You're really..." He lifted his hand slightly. "May I?"
I nodded, though I didn't know what he planned to do. Slowly, as if he was moving under water, he reached forward and his fingertips brushed against the strand of purple hair hanging in my face. He lifted it and delicately put it behind my ear. His calloused finger brushed my cheek, and I sucked my breath in sharply.
"Why do you work the night shift?" I finally whispered. I needed something to say.
He shrugged. "That's just the way it worked out. And I don't mind. I'm a night person."
"Me too," I said lamely. He smiled. I smiled back.
"How old are you?" Paul asked, resting his hand on my shoulder lightly. I didn't shrug him off.
"How old do I look?" I challenged playfully.
He shook his head. "I really don't know. Your hair and clothes...well...they say you're pretty young. But your face..."
"Are you saying I'm wrinkly and old?"
He held up his hands. "No, no, of course not. You just look...like you've lived a little."
"I'm 23. You?" I expected him to say somewhere in his thirties. It took me by surprise when he told me he was only 28.
I looked at my watch. If I wanted to get to the Chevron on time, I needed to leave. But suddenly the old Korean man didn't seem that interesting. He noticed me looking at my watch.
"You usually leave by now," Paul said softly.
I nodded. "I do. But...I think I'll stick around tonight for a bit longer. What about you? Do you have somewhere to go?"
"No...not really. Stephanie, I..."
"Yes?"
Instead of speaking, he leaned forward and kissed my lips gently. I kissed him back thoughtless, and I couldn't breathe. Shocked and pleased, I cupped the side of his face with my hand. I could feel the stubble beneath my palm, and the sticky wet night air, and he tasted like my cigarette and a late night cup of coffee. He didn't deepen the kiss, but he moved his lips with sincere longing, and sharp desire hit my directly in the gut.
Paul pulled back and breathed, "I've wanted to do that for a long time."
"I..." I didn't know what to say. I touched my lips with my fingertips and looked for the right words. Nothing came to mind.
Paul's eyes widened. "I'm sorry if I upset you...or offended you...or anything. I just..." He stood up, nervous. "I have to finish my patrol. I'm sorry, I'll just go and..."
I caught his hand and held it in mine. "Don't go," I said softly. "I'm not upset."
"Are you sure?"
I nodded. He sat on the bench again, his leg touching mine again, his hand on my shoulder again, and his lips found mine again.
I didn't finish my regular circuit that night, and when the sun peeked over the horizon, we were still on the bench, holding hands and kissing with delicate passion.