The red numbers of his clock count up as his bedroom night travels lonely and slowly. Felix resorts to pinching and opening his finger and thumb, timing it to the pulsing dots that beat between the LCD digits. It’s an attempt to mentally bitch-slap the worry that creeps up from the bedroom shadows and engineers traumas that may never occur, the infestation that crawls into the brain cracks that insomnia opens up. He forces his mind elsewhere, counting the flashes, and then, as is often the case, some words occur to him.

Felix reaches for the pencil that’s taped to a string and hangs from the wall beside his side of the bed. He pulls back the curtains, careful to avoid a pollution of street-light, and scribbles the line on the smooth render of the wall. He finds it hard to find a blank piece and reminds himself to paint over it before she notices. She stirs beside him just as his words are transcribed and he writes ‘paint’ at the end. Felix drops the pencil to swing from side to side too quickly and it scrapes against the wall as the curtain settles itself, it’s metronomic sound of wood on wall amplified by the night time silence. She moves again. Felix shifts in the bed so he can rub her spine and the pinching finger and thumb that had timed the pulsing dots, now morph to a sweeping lullaby rhythm of fingers as he conducts the orchestra of her vertebrae and sends her back to beautiful sleep. He checks her pulse, from habit and fear, assuring himself that her under duvet body shift was simply one of positioning.

The numbers continue to beat towards the alarm, a time set not to waken him, for he has yet to enjoy such a pleasure, but as an unnecessary reminder that provides him with a comfort, that might some day, allow him to sleep. Felix closes his eyes and he thinks of bees’s and roof leaks, of balance sheets and tornadoes, taxes and food. He runs the days against the dates and counts the working hours until Easter, when a holiday can be taken, at least in mind.

The red digital numbers count up.

The house begins to creak as the pipes start to heat and Felix hears the first bird of the morning as it competes with the rustle of a starving fox at the garbage. An air bubble gurgles in the water tank. He hears the milkman’s truck drop a gear for the hill and he reaches over to press snooze.

It’s a minute before time, as it always is.

He extricates himself silently from the bed, in a move that no longer pulls at his muscles like it used to. He finds the floorboards that don’t squeak and begins the silent tip toed dance across the floor that he’s sure would make him smile if he ever saw it reflected.
In the red hued darkness, he takes the medication from the shelf of unread books and slowly opens the bedroom door. A crack of light enters and Felix squeezes through. He crosses the narrow hall to his sons open room, popping the tablets from the blister pack and picking up one of the bottles of water that float sideways in the fish tank.

The room glows softly from the night-light and the boy is jumbled amongst the duvet and the shadows. Felix feels along the soft contour of teenager and blanket, checking to see if the sheets are dry and trying to find his son’s hidden head. He touches the long locks and puts his hand behind his neck, moving his son gently on to his back before lifting him forward to a sitting position. Felix whispers in his ear but the boy doesn’t respond, so he shapes his mouth to an ‘O’ and begins to breath in and out sharply with a hint of whistling. His son smiles with his eyes still sleeping, as the sound of the howling wind breathes within his ear.
He opens his mouth, waiting for his father to give him his medication and Felix puts the tablets on his son’s sticky tongue. The boy waits for the water his ‘bottle fish’ provide and swallows quickly to lie down again to where his pillow once was. He is jumbled and lost again beneath the covers before Felix leaves the room.

The hum from the refrigerator welcomes Felix to the kitchen. He flicks on the lights and turns on the tap to let the water run. He waits for it to get hot and then washes the bottle fish. He dries his hands and reaches for the whiteboard. He writes some words that occur to him and stretches the tension from his shoulders as the sun begins to rise. He hears the geyser as his wife turns on her shower. He curses to himself for waking her and then he begins the routine.

The hour number has moved forward by one as Felix finishes dressing his son, who has decided this morning that his mother is a stranger. Felix sighs at the words that he hears and tries to kiss away her tears as she leaves for work. He reminds her it’s just another day that will be over soon. He will love her again tomorrow. She promises him a new bottle fish as she closes the door, but he plays with his fingers and rocks back and forth.
Felix removes his tie and throws it in the garbage, it’s silk ripped and torn.

He writes some words on an envelope as they wait for the bus to arrive at their gate. His son hugs him tightly and asks about story-time. Felix hints at what’s to come and talks of the tornadoes and the howling wind. He smoothes his sons hair and helps him to the bus that toots a warm welcome. He’s calmer as he sits and looks from the rear window. His carer tells him to wave. Felix smiles and holds up a bottle of water as he always does, signaling that the story of the Bottle Fish will continue on his return.

The bus turns a corner.

Felix closes his car door and breathes the moment. He tries to recall the words he has scattered around his house, reciting the lines that he will add to his poem. He knows he will not add more until the red numbers count up again.

He writes on a yellow post it as he starts up the engine. Maybe tonight the Bottle Fish will be attacked by Jelly Beans.
Felix wonders how much gelatin the water would need to turn the fish tank into slime?

He smiles as he reverses the car into his day.