The Hour After Dinner

The dishes are done. I like the sound the dishwasher makes when it starts. A soft whoosh of water. It means the day is almost over.

My hands are still a little warm from the water. I make tea in my yellow mug. The one with the small chip on the top. I always hold it so my thumb covers the chip. I don't know why. I just do.

I sit on the couch. The blanket is a little scratchy, but it's warm. Outside, the streetlights make long yellow lines on the wet road. No cars go by. It’s quiet.

A thought comes into my head. Something I said to someone today. Was it a dumb thing to say? I think about it for a minute. Then the thought goes away. Like a little boat floating down a river.

My shoulders feel heavy. It's a tired feeling that lives right there. Between my neck and my back. It's there most nights.

I get up to check the front door. I know I already locked it. But I check again. The click sounds loud in the quiet house.

This is the hour that I never remember. It's not dinner time. It's not sleep time. It's the in-between time. If someone asked about my day, I would not talk about this hour. It’s just nothing.

But my life is made of these hours. All these little quiet times. All these moments where nothing big happens.

Writing this down feels strange. It makes the hour feel bigger. It makes it feel like it matters. Like it was a real part of my day. Not just empty space. It was my space.