Nighting Morn. | by Alex Harrison

Who’s there?

It’s me.

Oh right.

It’s dark.

I know.

What time is it?

I don’t know.

It must be late.

Or early.


They sat in the living room and the clocks didn’t think it was any time at all. She leaned back in the dusty armchair, he pressed against the painted doorframe.

Did you see anyone while you were out?

No. There’s no one around.


I got that CD you wanted- the new one.

I can’t wait to listen to it.

I know.


He walked off into the kitchen, it was cold in there and it was raining outside.

Did you get wet?

No, I drove.


He filled the kettle with water and stood against the counter counting in his head; he didn’t say anything.

Are you still there?

He didn’t say anything.


He still didn’t say anything.


She went to the kitchen.

Hello? Are you still there? I can’t see.

Yes. I’m still here.


The kettle came to a boil and he poured two cups of tea: sugar in hers, milk in his. They sat at the table.

I love the sound of the rain on the window.

I know.

You love it too.

I know.

He slurped his tea.

I want to put on that CD.


She got up and put it on. The music played and she closed her eyes.

Your eyes are closed.

How do you know?

I don’t know. It’s dark. But I know.

Of course.

I could listen to this song all day.

It’s night.

Then all night.


He laughed. Smiled.

Can I smoke inside?

Do what you want.


He lit a cigarette. He took a drag.

I love the smell of smoke.

Me too.


The rain went on.

It was a great party.

I liked it.

It was fun.

Everyone is gone now. No one is left?

No. No one.

Alright. Less mess.

I can feel these cups on the ground.

They’re red plastic ones.

You remember?


She pushed one over to his foot. He felt it with his toes.

You need a haircut.

I know.

I could cut it.


Will I do it now?

No. It’s too late.

Or early?


She laughed.

So I will cut it tomorrow?



The song kept playing.

I love that song.

I wish we had it for the party.

It doesn’t matter now.

I suppose not.

We’ll have to clean up the floor soon before it gets light.

I’ll start.

He got the plastic bags and cleaned the house. Red cups. Bottles. Cans. Glasses. Ash. Dirt.

We have to leave tomorrow.

Or this morning.

She laughed.

I guess.

I know.

We’re packed already?



The flight is going to be really long.

It’s far away.

I know.

My tea is still too hot to drink.

He took the same drag of the same cigarette.

I can still feel that cup by my feet.

I know.

We have to clean up.

We can’t.

I know.

When will it be morning?

I don’t know.


Repeat, if necessary.



Alex Harrison is a poet, filmmaker and musician based out of the greater Dublin area. He has read his work at the 2017 Westport Arts festival and at the recent launch of the 3 Fates: Garden Witch zine. He is a co-founder and editor of the online literary magazine Cold Coffee Stand.