By F Train © 2005
An hour was all we had. It was all we needed, to be sure -- from the highly charged start to the soothing comfort of its quiet, entwined conclusion -- but in a perfect fairy tale world, we would have had more. We'd have been able to revisit that hour, again and again, whenever we wanted, twisting and turning it like a Rubik's cube, marveling in an unexpected combination or viewing its myriad colors from a previously undiscovered angle. Unfortunately, our own personal fairy godmother hadn't read the part of the story where Cinderella and the prince live happily ever after. Our godmother had deigned to give us only an hour.
"Why would you want to have anything to do with me?" Cinderella asked me at the top of the hour, as we left the ball. She didn't really care what the answer was. By that point, we both were confident where the hour was taking us. The question was one of mere idle curiosity.
That didn't stop me from answering in a way that Cinderella's prince never would have, as I pulled her closer to my shoulder. "Because you're fucking hot." If it was ever true, it was especially true that night. Her gown was a slutty black number that was tied behind her neck, open the whole length of her back, and just barely covered her ass. It was complemented by black fishnet stockings and jet black, thigh-high "fuck me" boots. There were no glass slippers for this would-be queen.
The bottom of the hour found Cinderella's lithe naked body curled against mine, her head resting on my chest. As I stroked her long, dark hair, I asked what time it was. Her response was soft, barely a murmur.
Two minutes more, then. We had taken a step outside of the usual, and it had been a fantastic torrent of passion and emotion, but our fairy godmother was waiting and would not be detained. I held Cinderella with one arm, feeling her soft and ageless skin against mine as we both quietly and contentedly awaited the coming of the hour and the breaking of the spell.
In the fairy tale, Cinderella's spell broke at midnight. When the clock struck twelve, the carriage turned back into a pumpkin, the horses shrunk to their former mousy selves, and the belle of the ball herself reverted to her everyday, scullery maid existence. Our spell broke as the clock rolled forward to 1am and we found ourselves back at the ball, leaving it for a second time.
The FM boots, the fishnets and the gown -- that same, trashy black skimp of a gown -- were once again covering Cinderella's greatest treasures as a cab pulled up to the curb. Cinderella opened the rear passenger door, tossing her hair over a shoulder with a flick of her head as she glanced back at me. "Thanks," she said. "That was fun."
A soft half-smile cracked my face. "Yeah."
There was a pause while I considered more of a response, but there wasn't anything else to be said. There couldn't be anything else to be said. Cinderella took advantage of the pause to climb into the cab and slam the door closed. As the magnificent yellow carriage carried her away from me, I stood rooted to the spot, watching until they both disappeared into the twisting, night-cloaked maze of Gotham.
Every year, a curious thing happens on the last Sunday in October. At 2am, verifiably the dead of night, all clocks in the United States are turned back an hour in recognition of the end of a legislatively mandated anachronism known as Daylight Saving Time. For most people, the only noticeable effect is that they gain an hour of sleep. Some, however, choose to gain an hour of life.
F Train is a writer and poker player from Brooklyn, NY.