Three Knocks at 3 A.M.

Content Note: Contains themes of domestic abuse, coercion, and death.

I’m just getting ready to see her, and I know exactly how the night will end.

I have a date, which is great because I can’t sleep anyway. I’ve been like this for weeks. Wired, raw, confused, and smitten. It’s like we truly come alive in the thin, weary hours of the night. No one to interrupt us. Three in the morning might seem odd to most people. Normal people are in bed, or at work, or about to get up and start the ceremony of preparing for the day.

I’m setting wine glasses out and reheating chicken tikka masala, because there aren’t any good restaurants open this late. Or is it early? I think we have had enough pizza and pancakes to drive me crazy, but what else is open at three?

She’ll be here soon. I can see her in my mind, the dress, the way her smile lingers like she’s about to say something important. The fabric clings to her like water in the desert, trying to hold on. My own personal oasis.

Oh, I almost forgot, she left her shawl here. She never takes it with her, but I like to put it on her chair. I like that she leaves it. It still smells like her. It belongs here like she does. Sometimes when the world gets to be too much, I just breathe deep and I’m back in my oasis.

It’s almost time, but not quite yet. This part kills me. The wait. The sound of silence is unbearable at times. Deafening even. Without the honking, the yelling, the sirens, all I hear is the ticking of the clock. Marching closer to her arrival, every tick drowning out the last.

She is just so punctual. Most people would be ecstatic to have a partner who is always right on time, never late, never early. That’s not me. I like a little mystery in life, and I get bored when things are too predictable. The fun in life is the unpredictability, the mistakes, and I am very good at making mistakes.

Oh, I’m a dolt. Here I am waxing poetic, and then I hear it. three short knocks. 3:00 AM on the nose. Prim and sweet, just like her. I don’t need to check, it’s her. I unlatch the lock and ease it open, letting the night spill in. The hallway beyond is empty, the air cooler than it should be for August, carrying the faintest trace of lilacs.

My pulse quickens, and then, there she is.

No footsteps. No sound. Just there, framed in the doorway as if the shadows themselves had been holding her in place until I was ready. Her hair falls over one shoulder, catching what little light there is. Every night I find myself more and more jealous of her dress. I want to wrap myself around her until there is no light between us, but she won’t let me.

Her face lights up when she sees me, that perfect mix of surprise and recognition, like we’re meeting for the first time and the thousandth.

“Hi,” she says, her voice soft, the kind of soft that makes you lean in without thinking.

I gesture toward the table. “I was starting to think you might stand me up.”

A flicker crosses her expression, something uncertain, almost apologetic, but it’s gone before I can name it. She moves past me, never close enough to brush my arm, her steps soundless on the floorboards. The chair waits for her, shawl draped over the back. She glances at it but doesn’t touch it, lowering herself into the seat as though it might vanish if she’s not careful.

“You remembered,” she says.

“I always do.” The clock ticks behind me, steady as breath. 3:14 a.m. Her eyes dart toward it, then away.

I take my seat across from her, the candlelight catching on the rim of her untouched wine glass. I pour anyway, a slow crimson ribbon curling into crystal. She watches the liquid rise, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

“How was your day?” I ask, pouring the wine without waiting for an answer. I fill her glass nearly to the brim, then mine. No food for her, just a full glass of wine she never drinks. I don’t mind. I like the way it looks in front of her, the way the candlelight slips through the dark red and stains her fingertips. It’s funny, I never noticed how little she ate. She says she’s watching her figure, but I think she is perfect. I like the look of it in front of her, like a still-life I arranged.

Her gaze lingers on the flame between us. “Quiet,” she says.

“Good. You need quiet.” I smile. “The world is too loud for you sometimes. I like knowing I can give you peace here.”

The candlelight flickers and catches her wine glass just right, turning the rim into a razor-thin band of fire. For a moment, it looks like it could cut me if I reached across the table. She stares at it longer than she should, then blinks and looks away.

“You should eat,” I tell her, sliding my own plate a little closer to the center, as if to share.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You never are,” I say softly, like it’s our little secret. Mine to keep. I spear a piece of chicken and hold it up for a moment, letting the scent drift between us before taking the bite myself.

She glances at the plate, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips. “Indian?”

“I was sick of the same thing every night,” I say.

“Mm. Fitting.” Her tone is unreadable, but it lingers just long enough for me to wonder what she means.

“Then I’ll eat enough for both of us. I don’t mind taking care of you that way.”

She looks away, but I can see the tension in her jaw. “What was I saying?” she asks, shaking her head.

“You were telling me about the book. You got to chapter 15 and the protagonist is a jerk, well, according to you...”

“Right. The book. Sorry, deja vu. Feels like I’ve done all of this before.” She laughs, but it’s brittle, the sound of glass under strain.

3:17 AM, we are right on time. I don’t need to look at the clock, this is almost second nature. She starts reminiscing about the past, her eyes soft with memory. I nod along, but I know she’s not talking about a few weeks ago, at least, not only that. There’s a different weight in her voice, a thread of something older. She mentions the music playing that night, the way the air smelled after the rain, the sound of glass breaking somewhere far off. I remember all of it. Every detail of the night I told her I couldn’t live without her.

We drift into nostalgia, talking about music. She smiles at something I say, and I press the moment. “Remember the last time we were here? Just us, no interruptions. You wore that blue dress, I told you it should be yours forever.”

Her eyes soften, but there’s a distance in them. “It wasn’t blue.”

“It was.” I hold her gaze until she drops hers. “You forget details. That’s why you need me, so you can remember them the right way.”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she stares at the window, as if something outside has her full attention.

As 3:19 nears, she grows quieter. Her gaze strays to the window, lingering on the black pane as though she can see something moving beyond it. One hand drifts to her chest, her fingers pressing lightly as if to soothe some invisible ache.

I lean forward, trying to pull her back into the moment. “Hey, did I tell you about the guy in the corner store who thought I was buying wine for a wedding?”

She smiles faintly, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Or,” I continue, “the one about the pizza place that, ”

She blinks, shakes her head. “Feels like I’ve done this before.” Her laugh is brittle, the sound of glass under strain. Her gaze keeps wandering. I wait until she looks back at me. I always wait until she looks back at me.

3:22… It’s not supposed to be now. I should have 5 more minutes. Maybe I can fix this. “Déjà vu,” I say, waving it off. “We’re creatures of habit. That’s what makes us… solid. Reliable.”

Her eyes drift back to me, sharp now, and the smile is gone. “You said that the last time you came back from her place.”

The words gut me. I open my mouth, ready to deny it, but my tongue sticks. “No, I haven’t been with her since…”

Her gaze drops to the glass. It shifts just a hair, the base scraping across the tablecloth. My breath catches. She’s never touched anything before.

“I told you I would do whatever I could to make this right, to make us right. I haven’t seen her since our last argument. You are the only one I want to see. To feel.”

The clock on the wall clicks over 3:23, and she stands, slow and graceful, fingers brushing the back of the chair as if she’s memorizing the feel of it. “It’s happening again.” Of course it is, but the timing is all wrong.

“No,” I say quickly. “Not this time. I’ll change it. I swear.” I promise like a dying man. No more mistakes, never again will I lose my way, my temper.”

Suddenly, I’m an outsider watching the worst night of my life. She keeps talking, no screaming at a me that isn’t there. “You swore you wouldn’t see her again! I refuse to be your fool anymore!”

She flies to the floor as if she had been slapped. Rubbing her wincing face, I can see the tear glistening in her eyes.

“No, No, No, this can’t be happening. I love you. Please don’t leave me again.” I scream into an empty apartment, willing some god to take pity on me and release me, us, from this torture.

She lifts in the air, struggling to find a footing. Face turning redder than the wine that never touched her lips. In her struggle, her foot finds the wine glass. It teeters and falls over, rolling to the floor. The sound of crystal shattering echoes in the room.

I freeze. That’s never happened before. She locks eyes with me, begging or startled, and then is slammed into the doorframe with a sickening thud. Sliding to the floor, I hear her plea. “No more.”

Her head lolls. The air changes, lighter, emptier. I take a shuddering breath. She’s gone.

I turn toward the black window. Another night, another failure. If I had known I’d condemn her to this hell, maybe I’d have been gentler. Or maybe not. If only she hadn’t talked back, accused me of abandoning her, when she was the one who tried to walk out. Yes, I lost my temper, but she’s been needling me for eternity.

The wine glass. She moved it tonight. I saw it. That’s never happened before. She’s remembering more. It’s like she’s getting stronger, but she is mine. Forever.

It’s always the remembering that poisons it, that flicker in her eyes when she starts stitching the night together, seeing the shape of it. That’s when she slips from me.

I can stop it. I’ve stopped it before. Keep the edges smooth, the questions light, the silences short. Make her laugh. Keep her soft, pliable, warm. If she stays that way, she stays mine.

I’ve fixed nights before. One time, I skipped the wine and she made it to the door without screaming, all the way to 3:47. Another time I kept her talking about Paris until sunrise and she never even left her chair. There’s always a way to steer her back, if I’m careful enough.

Tomorrow night, I’ll get it right. She’ll never touch the glass, never look at the clock, never remember the end. And maybe then I can finally have a night that doesn’t break apart in my hands.

A night that stays whole.

A night that stays mine.

I wipe the table and pour myself what’s left of the bottle. The sky outside is paling, just before dawn. My eyelids feel heavy. I’ll try again tomorrow.

I turn.

She’s standing in the doorway. Not the girl who drifts in at three a.m., lost in a loop. This version is different. Awake. Her eyes pin me in place.

“I remember everything now.” She tilts her head. “You really think this is about you fixing it?”

The question stops me cold.

Her hand hovers above the table. The largest shard of glass slides toward her like it’s been waiting. She curls her fingers around it, and for the first time, I don’t see confusion in her eyes. I see clarity. I see choice.

“You said no more,” I whisper. The words feel thin, pathetic, even to me. It’s my turn to plead now. They hang between us like smoke, curling toward her and vanishing before they reach.

“I meant it. And I’m not talking to you now, I’m talking to me.” She steps closer. I back away without meaning to, my heels catching on the rug. The pale light catches the shard, turning it into a blade of righteous fire. My mouth dries. My chest tightens. I know this feeling, the powerless dread, the way the walls seem to inch closer, the floor tilting beneath your feet. I made her feel it once. Now it’s mine.

“This is mine now,” she says, and the calm in her voice chills me more than any scream.

The glass tilts, the light runs along its edge like a fuse burning down…

And then it’s in me.

The air rips from my lungs. The taste of copper and tikka masala mixes in my mouth and nose. I drop to my knees, the dawn exploding behind my eyes. Through the blur, I see her step back. Her face is calm, certain, like she’s finally reached the shore after years of treading water.

She glows a faint blue that becomes stronger and stronger until I can no longer look at her. The scent of lilac becomes almost sticky and tangible. “You’ll understand soon.” She promises.

I blink, and she’s gone.

The room feels wrong. Smaller. The air presses in on me, thick and stale. The shadows knot tighter in the corners, pulsing in time with the pounding in my chest.

Then I hear it, three knocks on a slightly crooked door. It’s not her knock. Too heavy. Too slow.

The air shifts again, heavy and cold. Each knock beats through my head, and the silence stretches between as oppressively as any desert heat. The smell of rot and brimstone fills my nostrils, and my stomach turns queasy. My blood goes cold.

This time, I have no idea how this night will end.