At 12 o'clock, we watch the time tick-tock by, and we wait for a doorbell.

DOORBELL RINGS.

The doorbell sounds, it's only 12:05. It's too early in the day to feel left behind.

At 1 o'clock, she speaks to me in a voice she only uses when she's feeling reminiscent or upset. I don't listen; I never do. And she knows it. She speaks to herself and traces her fingers along the leather. It's green, the color I despise the most. And she knows that.

At 2 o'clock, we start playing games with each other.

She takes off her jacket.

She brings me out of my misery for brief seconds when her hands lie on no man's land.

She starts to play with her jewelry, licking her lips, fingering the diamond that hangs so heavily around her neck. I wonder if I bought her that sometime.

My eyes are shut, I don't like looking at her when she plays the deception game.

At 3 o'clock, she's smoking a long cigarette, taking in carefully drawn breaths every few seconds. She smirks at me; she's become disgruntled at me. I don't even acknowledge her. I just listen to her careful breaths and I smell the fragrance of heavy smoke.

There's silence. There always is.

We sit, awkwardly and crookedly, in an air filled with her disposition and smoke. She's upset with me now, I can tell.

At 4 o'clock, she tries to stand up, but she doesn't want to leave this green leather couch. So she sits with me for awhile, and we haven't spoken words in years. I don't try to make conversation, because we simply can't. Our words become tangled and harsh, and they sting. And when she cries, which she always does, I can't stand her. So we just let the air of bitterness and resentment hang for awhile, or forever.

At 5 o'clock, a shadow crosses the room. Night has begun to fall. The door shuts.

CURTAIN FALL.