2 o’clock in the morning

2 o’clock in the morning. Staring into the bathroom vanity mirror in the dark. Unkempt hair and a two-day beard staring back wearing a brown t-shirt with a faded Batman symbol. Even in the dark, there’s grey in the beard. I can’t see my own eyes. There’s a reflection from the hall light on my glasses. I don’t want to look there anyway. I know what’s inside because that’s where I am. My daughter is sleeping in my room. My neck hurts from laying on the couch without a pillow avoiding sleep and everything else and watching a month’s worth of backed up television drama on the TiVo. I want to see what happens to these people’s lives. These fictitious people who go home from their jobs and cash their checks and worry about things like product endorsements and network executives putting their show up against another network’s runaway hit of the season. I’ve got to work tomorrow while my daughter is here, before she goes home to her mother in two days. This week is special. She has to give me first dibs on watching her while she’s at a conference. That’s what the court says. I get first dibs. And every other weekend. And alternating holidays. I get a house full of drawings and toys and no echoes ten out of fourteen days a week. It takes about twenty minutes for the Advil to kick in they say. I can’t wait. The pain shoots up the side of my neck and sinks it’s fingers into the tops of my eyes and pulls backwards trying to open me up. Another couple minutes is all I need.