Youth [h.s.]

Chapter Three: Time.

-

"The sun is the same in a relative way, but you're older
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death
Every year is getting shorter, never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over, thought I'd something more to say"

-

  Monday mornings were a usual blur; 6-2 shift at the diner with endless broken glasses that always seem to prick the tips of her slender fingers and black apron pockets filled with receipts marked with phone numbers rather than tips. Cheap ass men who must have something in their left eye. By the time two hits, the black apron is tossed and her shiny brown hair is a mess when she's struck by the chilly and polluted New York City air.

Two-fifteen hits and the bell chimes as she walks into Douglas, the crappy lit bar Zoe and Hanna works at only Zoe works dead shifts whereas Hanna from then into the night. Two-twenty-five and she's standing there with a mojito in her hand Bale across the with a seductive smirk, dirty tongue, and Zoe making faces behind him without his acknowledgement.

The clock strikes three o'clock and the ever so cheerful Zoe and her are walking down the concrete street hand in hand in their usual routine. "What are we going to do tonight?"

Only being able to offer a shrug Zoe gets exasperated and squeezes her tricep. She hisses at the pressure, scolding at the ever persistent Zoe. "Oh come on! We always end up back at Doug's! We need to switch it up a little, spice it up, let our hair down, paint the town red-"

"What the hell have you've been watching on Netflix?"

Zoe scoffs with a toothy grin, giggling like always. She couldn't help but join her in girlish giggles, elbows locked and stride in sync as they continued their way down the street. She wouldn't be lying is she confesses that she's tired of the routine. She's tired of the robotic lifestyle she's consumed in, the struggle of waking up everyday to make rent, the energy of being up late every night just to have something to talk about the next day. It's exhausting and stupid. A complete waste of time. A waste of her youth.

She has pictured herself outside the skyscrapers. She loves the city, no doubt about it. She loves the activity, the crowd, the stories, the chaos.. It makes her feel at ease. As if she's not the only one sucked in a time ward. Not the only one trapped in their own toxic mind. Or just maybe she is. Maybe she is the only one even considering possibilities, the only one who doesn't kiss their spouse in the morning and clocks in for a nine to five shift six times a week. The one who prefers the sound of the wind against the window mixed with the honking of impatient drivers than the radio. Prefers to share a taxi cab in hopes for someone to share a story, takes the long trips on the subway to study people, paint her own very picture of their lives. She likes to believe not everyone is immune to every day life passing them by. That she's not the only one with a upmost fear of death, of getting older, of time being wasted.

That's quite possibly her greatest fear. Gerascophobia. She self-diagnosed herself when she turned nineteen. Zoe had to hold her for three hours in the kitchen after singing happy birthday to her and saying, quote on quote, "your last year as a teen!" She never acknowledged growing up. She actually dreaded the wait, turning eighteen meant her freedom from hell but for a paradox reason, the switch went up and her hourglass became visible. Time. Time itself was her grim reaper.