Cindy at Midnight

If Cinderella 99 is your strain, this is your sign: Cindy at Midnight. The cobbled street under the clock tower, 11:58, one silver sneaker behind you on the stones, and you are going to make it anyway.

The cobbled street under the clock tower, 11:58 p.m. Two minutes to midnight and one shoe down. Five seconds of it, which she does not have to spare.

If Cinderella 99 is your strain

It is always two minutes to midnight for you. You are never late; you just leave everything until leaving it any longer would make you late, and then you run, and the running is the best part of your day, so you have stopped pretending otherwise. The cobbles know your stride. They give it back to you.

You never go back for the shoe. That is the rule and it is the whole philosophy: going back for the shoe is how you end up watching midnight from the bottom of the street with both shoes and nothing to show for it. You would rather arrive laughing in one sneaker than on time and sulking in two.

At your best you are the person who makes it with a second to spare and holds the trophy up to the street: quick, determined, lit by lanterns nobody admits to lighting, in on the ninth bell every time. People bring your things back to you. You have decided it is not your business to know who.

Your flaw is the trail. There is a fountain at the bottom of the street with your sneakers lined up along the rim by size, and somewhere a very patient person who puts one on the top step every morning, and you have never once said thank you to the right person.

What you need is a clock you can read from the corner and a street with somewhere to be at the top. Give you that, and midnight is not a deadline, it is a finish line.

Your hour: 11:58 p.m.
Your place: The cobbled street under the clock tower
Your object: One silver sneaker
Your tempo: Full stride from the corner
Your weather: Lanterns and a full moon
Your flaw: You leave a trail

Your people

The Sprinter (Green Crack)The Sprinter agrees that two minutes is plenty, and is the only one who could beat you to the steps.
The Night Courier (Sour Diesel)The Night Courier is on the same clock from the other side of town; you have passed each other at full tilt more than once.
The Daydreamer (Blue Dream)The Daydreamer leaves a page where you leave a shoe. Neither of you goes back for it.

Things you say

Two minutes is plenty.
Never go back for the shoe.
Midnight isn’t a deadline, it’s a finish line.
I’d rather arrive laughing.
Somebody always brings it back.

A scene from your world

Two minutes to midnight

It is always two minutes to midnight for Cindy. Not because she is late, exactly. She is never late. It is that she leaves everything until the moment when leaving it any longer would make her late, and then she runs, and the running is the best part of her day, so she has stopped pretending otherwise.

Tonight the clock tower at the top of the street says 11:58 and the street is lit the way it is always lit, by pumpkin lanterns along both kerbs that nobody admits to lighting. Cindy comes round the corner at the bottom at full stride, pearl-white jacket open, the orange jumpsuit catching every lantern she passes, and the cobbles, which know her, do the thing they do and give her the stride she needs.

Halfway up, the left sneaker goes. It always goes. It is silver and sparkly and it comes off like it has somewhere else to be, and it lands on the stones behind her with a small, satisfied slap. She does not go back for the shoe. She has never once gone back for the shoe. Going back for the shoe is how you end up watching midnight from the bottom of the street with both shoes and nothing to show for it.

So she runs the rest in one sneaker and one striped sock, laughing, because the clock has started its warm-up, the heavy clunk before the first bell, and the tower is close enough now that she can see the hands and tell them, under her breath, that they can do what they like. The first bell goes. She is on the steps by the fourth. She is at the door by the ninth. She is in, and turning, and holding up her one remaining sneaker to the street like a trophy, as the twelfth bell goes out over the roofs.

Down at the bottom of the street, somebody she will never see picks up the silver sneaker off the cobbles and carries it to the fountain, where the others are, lined up by size along the rim. By the morning one of them will be on the top step of the tower, waiting, as one always is. She has no idea who does it. She has decided it is not her business to know.

“Two minutes is plenty,” she says, to the door, to the clock, to the whole lantern-lit street, and goes in, and the pumpkins, as far as anyone can tell, go on burning on their own.

The street

The clock tower: At the top of the street, hands you can read from the corner. It warms up with a clunk before the first bell. She has never heard the twelfth from outside.
The cobbles: They know her stride and give it back to her. They also take a sneaker a night, which she considers a fair rent.
The pumpkin lanterns: Along both kerbs, lit at dusk by nobody. Nobody has ever been seen lighting them. Nobody has ever seen one go out.
The fountain: At the bottom of the street, where the lost sneakers end up, lined along the rim by size. Nobody knows who lines them up.
The top step: Where a silver sneaker is waiting every morning. One, never two. The pair is somebody else’s problem.
The corner: Where she comes into view at 11:58, jacket open, already at full stride. Anything before the corner does not count.