The Golden Hour

Charlie took a draw from his cigarette as he watched the night start to creep in. The wind howled through the trees in high pitched wails and an icy breeze nipped at his skin. He breathed in deeply, tasting the comforting spice of the smoke. His cheeks appeared hollow as he sucked in the last remaining warmth of the day. Crickets chirped their songs in chorus and little pockets of light flickered from the windows of the houses in the distance. The small town appeared like a glowing orange oasis. 

Charlie's head bowed towards his sunken chest. The remains of the summer months had left its marks on his face. His skin was shrouded with a rusted tan and heavy lines crept beneath his eyes. A glass of whisky glistened in his claw-like hand, it sparkled, promising companionship for the coming months. The glittering lights of the houses distracted Charlie’s thoughts for a moment. He could imagine the cherry faced families who lived inside, with their white shiny smiles. Sitting in their freshly painted rooms, with their leather recliners and television screens. It felt so far away from his small wooden house. The one that sat alone at the top of the hill, with no neighbours you could walk to.

He pressed the glass of whiskey to his lips and drank deeply. The caramel liquid danced on his tongue, his posture softened and a gentle ease washed over his face. A warmth flickered inside his chest, it crackled like a campfire. Tiny golden beads clung to his spiderweb beard and fell in droplets of amber down his chin. He might just sit out here all night. He could pretend he was nothing. Nothing but a fragment of the night. Rigid and still like a riverstone, no blood pumping through its veins, just silent, empty and still. As he continued to drink, the dull aching hole he had been carrying in his chest all day was slowly filling up. It was officially the Golden Hour. 

Charlie could remember a time where he didn’t feel so hollow. It felt like a lifetime ago now. Part of him wondered if it even really happened, or if it had just been a dream. A wish, a delusion. He pressed his eyes shut, forcing them together into crosses. He imagined the yellow meadow at the bottom of the stairs turning a lush green. The proud oak tree at the end of the meadow was full of bursting leaves and stretching branches that swayed against the blue sky. He could see himself, strolling through the long grass. The hot sun had turned his skin a rosy red, and he was standing more upright than usual. Somehow he appeared taller.

Through the tall grass behind him a tiny red head bobbed beneath the brush. Charlie’s heavy leather boots had flattened footprints in the grass and the little girl diligently followed his tracks. Brown rabbits sped ahead of them, the flashes of their white tails disappeared into the bushes. The little girl trotted after Charlie in her rubber gumboots, struggling to keep up with his stride. He stopped for a moment to wait for her. “Ya see?”, Charlie said, pointing towards the ground, “That split in the middle? Kinda looks like a heart? That’s deer feet.” He knelt down to get closer to the two sets of deer tracks imprinted in the dirt. “And see here?”, he added, shuffling to one side so the puffing little girl could see.

“There are some smaller ones right here next to ‘em.” The girl's round face flushed with excitement, “A baby one?!”, she exclaimed, her cheeks glowing apple red. “Uh huh.” Charlie smiled. She bent down and pressed her face close to the dirt, nearly touching the ground with her nose. “Like Bambi?” she chirped. Charlie placed a hand on her tiny shoulder, “Just like Bambi.” he said. 

June was just 5 years old, with round eyes as blue as Cornflower and hair as red as a Cardinal bird. Charlie’s then girlfriend Anna used to leave June in his care while she went to work. The two would spend the day walking through the great forests that surrounded Charlie's home and visit his retired champion Magpie. Magpie was a beautiful horse, black like Onyx with crisp white stockings. Oh how Magpie used to fly around those barrels. It was like they were flying. But that was a long time ago now. Charlie had retired a long time ago after an injury had put a stop to his career. Magpie had grown old, his shiny black coat now sprinkled with grey and his muscular frame slowly wasted into bones. He was still as gentle as ever, but now moved slowly through the fields, leaving his racing days behind him. June had loved him all the same. Charlie would lift her up onto Magpie's back and she would wrap her fingers around his thick raven mane. They would walk slowly underneath the sun with dandelion clocks swirling at their feet.

Charlie opened his eyes and stared back out into the night. The lights in the houses had since dimmed and only faint outlines of the trees could be made out in the dark. June was gone now and so was Anna. He remembered at the end how bad it had gotten. How he was swallowed completely by the Golden Hour. He had sold his soul to that amber devil and couldn’t get it back. It seemed strange to him that the one thing that destroyed his life and robbed him of happiness was the thing he held onto the tightest. His golden life preserver. 

He wanted to picture things as they were before he lost control. Before the tears and the fights and the pain. He wanted to imagine Anna as she had been back then. The way she would twirl around in the kitchen, with her yellow sundress, floating around her like buttercups in spring. How her hips would sway as she danced, laughing as she tried to teach him how to waltz, and her bright melodic voice would tease his “two left feet.” He wanted to remember how her crimson hair would pour over her shoulders, swirling like wine. How she would stand on this same veranda watching as the morning stretched across the meadow, and how the sun would trickle over her like ribbons of spun gold. 

The cigarette pressed between his lips had burnt down to a stub, and sprinkles of ash littered the floor. Yes, he could remember those times. He could remember how they tasted, how they smelt ..- But most of all, he remembered how he had smudged those days out, crushed them into dust. And now all he had left was this. The Golden hour before him and the one after that. The glass in his hand, despite being full, felt empty, so vacant, like air in a cup.