I sat awkwardly on his bedroom floor, bewildered as to how I’d landed in the one place I swore this conversation wouldn’t happen. He was sprawled face-down on his bed, half-asleep and with no idea of what I was about to demand of him.
My gaze wandered slowly across the room. I’d only seen it in the light a few times before. Empty Schlitz bottles, a copy of New Moon, the familiar Rage Against the Machine cloth banner fluttering under his ceiling fan. I glanced at the clock to my left, its green face blinking and mis-set. 6:28. 6:28. 6:28. It was 9:30.
Oh, I thought. I remember it being orange. How did I miss that?
What stands out from that night wasn’t finally getting answers from him or the text message he sent me as soon as I’d left.
I just know that his clock isn’t orange.