Darkest hour

She leaned across the table and touched my hand with her short stubby fingers. Her bangs cut straight across her smooth forehead. Each muscle in her face had been eased into a gentle peace offering, like the opening of a hand. “It is always darkest before the dawn” she said. I stared through her at the cold white wall, and tried to suspend all feelings so as to dissolve them into neutrality. Her words evoked powerful imagery, to which I was especially vulnerable in my airy state. First came the silvery wooden planks beneath my feet, and soon the gentle tossing of a nocturnal ocean. The stars blinked sharply through the cool air, and the wave crests played with my sleepy imagination before slapping against the broad bow. I was back on the ocean, standing night-watch on the deck of a large ship. More than once I mistook the sun’s queer presence for an approaching barge, a threat to the ships safety. The glimmer of light, would slowly build into a dome, and soon it would thaw my cold fingers and toes, and deliver the delicious chatter of morning. How funny that I should, at first, fear the very thing that would soon deliver such nurturing and comfort. My eyes began to water, no doubt from the staring, but the tears were tethered to fathoms of real emotion, which soon began to pour out of the depths of my raw confusion. The woman held her expression, determined not to be swayed. It was as though she had a role to play in the drama of my life, and she would deliver her lines whether I strayed from the script or not, the same way that the sun would rise whether or not we held course. I wanted to believe in her performance, but my eyes were not yet adjusted to brightness, and so I quickly rose from my seat, thanked her, and left.