It's Friday night again. The office is quiet, the door locked and the only noise comes from the vents and my radio. Down on the plaza, skaters circle the well-lit rink. I wish I was there.

Instead, I'm here trying to make a dent in the hopeless stack of work piled all over my desk. Sometimes this job feels like a possessive lover, an especially high-maintenance one.

I sigh and turn back to my keyboard, open the file and begin making the changes. Yes, the work is hard. I'm tired, and I can tell I won’t be able to concentrate on it for much longer. But being here is easier than going home to him.

Tomorrow is Saturday and if he makes it home, I'll have to wake up beside him. Tonight it's still Friday and I still have somewhere else to be.