The Small Hours of August

At one in the morning, Lena read the traffic notices on a local radio station that hardly anyone heard. At one fifteen, a man calling himself Blue Line phoned to request a song. He painted road markings on the ring road while traffic was light. His crew listened from a battered van.

For six weeks he asked for the same singer. Lena began choosing tracks he had not mentioned. He called to complain if she played a slow one near the end of a shift; it made the last mile feel longer. She told him that anyone measuring a song in miles deserved the long version.

They never discussed meeting. He knew she ate toast over the console and hated the station's broken wall clock. She knew he had a daughter who called every Sunday and that he watched birds while the road paint dried. His name was Daniel, though she learned that only when a colleague answered his phone.

Then the station was sold. Recorded programs would replace the overnight broadcast. Lena had twelve shifts left. She read the announcement without changing her voice, then put on a record long enough to cover the sound of opening her lunch box.

Daniel called at one fifteen. He asked for no song. “Where will you go?”

“Home at a sensible hour.”

“And after that?”

She did not know. She had mistaken staying awake for having somewhere to be.

On her final night, she invited the road crew to request anything they liked. There were songs for lost dogs, a new baby, a football club, and a terrible summer holiday. At four, Daniel asked whether she would meet him for breakfast after the broadcast. He named a café near the river.

She arrived at six and found a man in clean work trousers turning a teaspoon over in his fingers. He stood too quickly. In daylight, his voice sounded closer and less certain. She was suddenly grateful for every empty chair between them and the other customers.

They ordered eggs. He asked about the broken clock. She asked about the birds. For a while, neither seemed able to leave the subjects that had kept them safe at night.

Finally Lena said she was frightened of becoming someone who had nothing to say unless a red light came on.

Daniel put down the spoon. He admitted that he had rehearsed three opening sentences and forgotten all of them when she entered.

Outside, the morning traffic moved over lines he had painted. They finished breakfast, then walked along the river without a radio playing. When she asked him a question, he took his time before answering.