By day this cafe is the colour of supermarket oranges, it has that shiny look, and the jazz pours out of the open doors along with the aroma of fresh baked lasagne. But now that it's almost tomorrow and the light of the day has been replaced by the unrelenting blackness of night, the frontage is as grey as the smooth concrete sidewalk at my feet. I take in a deep breath, sucking in the air that carries a hint of dampness and lacks the heavy pollution of the day traffic. It could almost be another season in another place, but I'm not wishing to be elsewhere. I've already written it in my diary, 24th August 2014, "The day Jessie tells me he loves me as much as I love him..."
Midnight falls like a rich velvet blanket of black, swallowing up the day, draining the colours to grey and then to nothing at all.
As midnight comes trailing everything is forgotten only the long trance ahead filled with dreams and nightmare. Which shall it be today?...
By midnight the darkness is almost absolute, only a smattering of luminous stars scatter the heavens. Even the moon has waned to almost nothing and I cannot see even my hand in front of my face.
The dress that had hung so limply on the svelte mannequin is now the only separation between my skin and the creeping midnight chill. In the heady heat of noon it was as tempting as ice water, now all I want is a jacket to throw over the top. Up ahead is our rendez-vous, the cafe where we first met. I can already see the front, the street tables that were so busy in the day all stand empty, lonely without their chairs. I've never seen the orange paint look so grey, so blackish. The only splash of the friendly tangerine is in a spreading spot from the glow of a streetlamp. The hunger I had felt on the bus has been replaced by a rising feeling of unwellness in my stomach and below the clack of my heels my heart beat pounds it's own quickening rhythm. I had expected the streets to be almost empty, and whilst I don't need to weave through the crowds of earlier, there are a few folks about. I guess that's life in the city for you, the finest place to be alone in the crowds.
They would describe midnight in Grahsen as the killing time. For at midnight the night watchmen would pocket their bribes from the mob and 'sleep' for an hour. Midnight meant a free rein for murder, extortion and pillage. It mean locking your doors against the inky blackness and praying your number wasn't up. For if they came for you your cries would bleed into the night unheard by your protectors. No jack boots would come running for you. At midnight it was every citizen for themselves.
The light of the day had long since ebbed and dwindled to nothing, now as midnight marched steadily toward us the air was cooler and damper than it had been. In the sweet rain-washed darkness the sounds of the night became loud in our ears, even the rustling of the leaves and the whisper of the wind was thunderous. I swear that in the absolute blackness of that midnight world I could have heard a beetle in the earth, so acute became my hearing.
Midnight approached, dragging me into the day I had been dreading for weeks. Now all I can do is sit in the star speckled darkness and wait until the dawn.
A clear night illuminated only by the glint of starlight and the radiance of a bright moon. At midnight, yellow beams of streetlight would illuminate the invading darkness, casting a myriad of shadows upon the asphalt.