rigor

She had forgotten the day but not the year. Time was counted in division from the Collapse. Today is 12 AC. Tomorrow is 12 AC. Tuesday is 12 AC. Time works in many fits and the occasional annual start. The rest is noise. 

Her conversations are looped so she can ignore the day. Interruption causes ripples of reparation toward her still life pose. Her stasis forgets the excitement after an Advil. 

The diner has fallen into her temporal molass [sic]. Customers are the beat of the clock. Fred, her midnight, always tells of the same girl. He changes the name but the wheel spins about the circle. Shannon has her dreams—the life paradoxical. All of it and none of it at once. She's 3 AM. 5 is her favorite. 5 is our poet of no words. Burdened with the world's ignorance, he makes her feel better about herself. 

The travelers are ignored. They reek of adventure. They speak of fantasy lands. They want her to orbit their fame. They leave exalted, grateful for the drink of gasoline that carries them from nowhere. And she takes an Advil. 

The Year 12 AC. 

But there weren't enough Advils in the world for the Nissan that just broke down out front. Nor a calendar ready to note the two days sitting within.