Every Day at Seven o'Clock

Henry Cummings was not the most social person ever to grace the planet. As a former community college professor, he had perfected his daily routine over nearly thirty years. Classes had been in the morning, he had read and graded class work such as papers and exams in the afternoon, and then he had gone home around four o'clock. A light dinner then had followed. Everyone had known not to disturb him past seven o'clock, even his wife Charlotte when she had been alive. In that way, reading had been the passion where he had always allowed himself indulgence.

But tonight was different. He did not have a stack of books beside him on the stand as he sat back in the office lounge chair. A breath shuddered out of him. He crossed and uncrossed his legs, just mulling as he oversaw his desk.

A small notebook sat, ready to be touched and pried open, next to a glass and a bottle of wine he had received from his neighbor Anise. He rarely ever drank when he was reading—too much chance of spilling liquid on his precious books—but he needed the wine to dull his senses ever so slightly before this momentous task at hand.

After opening the bottle and pouring himself some of the wine, he considered the notebook that really shouldn't have intimidated him. But his hands shook as he laid the notebook flat against the desk and appraised the thin lines and the creaminess of the paper quality. The blank page stared up at him, beckoning like a lover ready to undress. His palms felt sweaty, so much so that he ran them down his thighs before he turned his attention to the small rectangular box next to the notebook.

With a care he usually afforded only to books and secondhand treasures, he lifted the box's lid and pulled out the sleek black fountain pen. It was new, a gift from his son Andrew for last month's retirement, and now was the perfect time to put it to good use. Once, twice, he allowed the pen to hover over the notebook's welcoming pages, but after a moment he set the pen back down and let loose a frustrated sigh.

To give himself a kick of some kind, Henry swished the wine and took a small sip. It was Merlot with a flavor of what tasted like cherries with hints of pepper and vanilla. Not a bad combination, all things considered. He would have to write a thank-you note to Anise.

Then he looked back to the waiting page and shook his head at himself. No one was holding him hostage. He could easily just shut the notebook and return to one of the books waiting for him. No one would punish him for waiting till seven o'clock tomorrow night for this experiment. If he just waited, then...

No. He had waited long enough. Years were slipping from his fingers faster and faster with no discretion. He was not a starry-eyed young man anymore, a kid who had thought he would travel the world and send letters to his family from every country in Europe. He was an old man now, by appearance and temperament and especially age, and waiting had to be a thing of the past.

His fingertips found the fountain pen again, and this time he closed his eyes before he contemplated the amount of empty space right ahead of him. He imagined the face of his wife Charlotte, bless her soul, who had looked at him with such fierce eyes as she had sat upright in the hospital bed.

Don't you dare leave this world without writing that book, she had said, even as she had been hooked up to an IV and the doctors had not offered a good prognosis. You'll regret each dying breath if you don't write it.

Then she had smiled as if she were still healthy and vibrant, as if there was still a chance that she could return home. If you need to regret anything, then it should be that you didn't give me the chance to read it myself when you've finished.

Tears blurred Henry's eyes as he finally let the tip of the pen touch the paper. With a flourish he wrote the words To Charlotte, my beloved wife, gone too soon.

There. It wasn't an opening line to what his book might become, but it was something. As he wrote, he would imagine he was telling the story to Charlotte as if they were back in their youth, sharing a milkshake at the local diner, a date night tradition that had followed them through the years.

When he closed his eyes now, he pictured her rapt attention, the gleam in her eyes as she listened intently, the way she would have leaned forward in anticipation as he talked through every beat of the story.

It was easier to let the first sentence come out, then another, and another, until he had filled one page. A page with so many more to go, a beginning that needed a middle and an ending, a story that would require finesse and time and patience—but as for a reader? He already had one.

And, in his mind's eye, she was waiting to hear more.

Henry didn't know how many nights he would need to finish a book, but he would be there at the desk promptly at seven o'clock each evening, ready for the date with his waiting story and the ghost of his wife watching over his shoulder.

This was just the first of many nights to come.