It looked so different at night

It looked so different at night.

When I had arrived very early in the morning, tired and vitriolic from a bad night’s rest, the streets were clear and cold, with pigeons here and there decorating the pale hues of the sidewalk. Caught up in my wish to stay alive, I did not stop to enjoy any sights and instead rushed straight into the nearest café, ordered the most concentrated cup of espresso the world had ever seen, and sat down to rub my temples. After that big cup, I was ready for anything and charged straight to work with my client.

But now, with the sky alight with nothing but stars, the view was rather enjoyable. I admit that it might be because of my lighter mood – the work had gone fine, and the client was amusing – but the sights were not bad in and of themselves either.

How should I describe the colour – it’s like when you see a black-and-white motion picture, decide to paint it, but only have the warmest colours at hand. The brick buildings were softly glowing yellow, the sunken cracks between the bricks violently dark, posing an almost cartoon-like contrast with the bricks themselves. The shops were alight with festivity, and the mall next to the road was decorated as if it were a Christmas tree – the high-drawn neon strips flickered gleefully.

Ah, yes, the neon lights. I’d always hated neon lights because of their saturation – the blues and pinks and reds were insufferable – especially when lighted to full capacity on a moonless night. But these neon strips, I assumed, had been designed specifically for tonight. Their colours were softer, less bright and showy, the edges blurred against the yellow bricks. In their light, the shadows of the people blurred, overlapped, sunk into each other and were surrounded by a soft halo of colour.

I walked into the same café as I had this morning. More coffee? Certainly not at this hour. I sat down, squinted at the menu and settled for a cup of hot milk. Overpriced, certainly, but not sleep-damaging. I didn’t think I’d be able to survive another sleepless night.

The barista was a young girl of around 20 years old. Her hair was chestnut brown, and it looked so kinky I wondered if she could even blow-dry it without using a fork. I chatted with her half-heartedly back and forth – Where’re you from? What brings you here? Enjoying the city? And then decided to visit the bar next door since there was some singing going on – and I’m not the sort of person to miss a nearby party.

There was a singer in the small bar. He held a vintage guitar, or what looked like one – it might’ve been dyed for that purpose – and was singing into a small microphone propped up on a wobbly stand. The lighting was much dimmer and fuzzy than the bright open lights of the café, and I nodded in approval – good for sleep.

The performer was singing an old American country song – Way… down upon the Swa..nee.. river, all… up and down… – and his voice was not bad. I was interested and listened for a few songs, then uncomfortably got up to leave as I hadn’t bought anything to drink, and the bartender was eyeing me suspiciously from the counter.

Back on the sidewalk, I exhaled, pulled my tan trench coat tighter around me and stuffed my hands into the pockets. I looked up – the sky was still cold and clear, and the stars twinkled as a cold wind blew through.

I started walking back to the hotel when I realised that I could check another item off my to-do list that I’d made when I was fifteen – get a trench coat and prowl the streets at night. I laughed quietly at the word ‘prowl,’ and silently walked on under the soft neon lights and the blinking stars and the low wind.