Three timezones

He woke up to good night.

She was three timezones ahead, so their days overlapped like two hands not quite managing to hold — his morning was her lunch, his lunch was her evening, and by the time he was ready to really talk, she was already apologizing for falling asleep.

They had never been in the same room. He knew the sound of her typing dots better than he knew most people’s voices.

Tonight he typed good morning at 11 p.m., because it was morning somewhere, because it was morning where she was, and because he had finally decided that her clock was the only one he wanted to live by.