A Super Bowl Sunday by the Clock

3:05 p.m.

The car idles in the driveway with the back seat down, the four folding chairs from the church hall stacked flat. The metal legs rattle when I ease over the curb. The street is empty; the snow in the yards has the grey crust it gets in February. My friend's mother is at the back door, holding it open with her hip. She takes the chairs one by one and stands them in the dining room. The table has been pushed against the wall, and the good chairs are already around it. In the kitchen, the slow cooker is on, humming, with steam coming off the lid. The chairs stand in a row, their rubber feet on the linoleum.

4:20 p.m.

The coats on the guest bed are piling up; mine is at the bottom of the pile. One is a green parka with a fur-rimmed hood, one is a barn coat with the collar turned up, one is a thin cotton jacket with no lining. The bedspread is gone under the pile. A pair of work boots sits at the foot of the bed, with a purse on top of them. In the kitchen, the first cans are open, and someone has set the dip out. The folding chairs are being pulled into the den, one at a time, with the metal legs scraping the threshold. The window in the den is open an inch; the cold air comes in low, along the floor. The television is on, and the pregame show is talking about the game. The pile of coats has reached the footboard.

5:35 p.m.

The slow cooker is on the counter with the lid off. Steam goes up in a straight column, and the kitchen windows are fogged. The meat pulls apart when my friend's mother turns it with a fork. She is not watching the television. She sets the fork on a saucer and wipes the splattered stovetop. In the den, the folding chairs are in rows facing the television, with the couch behind them. The dining-room table has paper plates and a stack of napkins. Someone comes in from the back and says the porch light is burned out. The dusk is complete; the window over the sink is black. The fork rests on the saucer beside the slow cooker.

6:20 p.m.

The front window has gone dark, and the driveway is full. One car is parked on the lawn with its nose toward the house. The coat pile has grown by two jackets. A woman comes in from the cold carrying a bag of ice, holding it against her chest, and sets it in the kitchen sink. The slow cooker has stopped steaming; the lid is on and the switch is on warm. The den is quiet now. The television is showing the national anthem, and no one sits. The folding chairs creak as people shift from foot to foot. The front-door mat is damp where the woman stood with the ice bag. The ice bag leaks onto the drainboard, the cardboard going soft at the corners.

7:10 p.m.

The Super Bowl has started. The room is quiet except for the announcers. The folding chairs creak when people lean forward; the couch is full, so I sit on a church chair near the door. The air in the room is a layer of woodsmoke, warm dip, and the heat off the television. The window behind the set has gone black, and the cold presses through the glass. During a timeout, someone goes upstairs, and we hear the guest-bedroom door close and open again. The play resumes. Someone has turned off the overhead light, and only the television lights the room. The chair I am sitting on has a metal crossbar under the seat. The crossbar is cold to the touch.

9:15 p.m.

Halftime is loud, and the people in the kitchen are talking over it. The paper plates have been cleared once, and the slow cooker is on the counter with the ladle still in it. The coats upstairs have been moved to make room on the bed; someone lies face-down on top of them during a commercial. The den windows are shut, and condensation runs down the glass where the room's heat meets it. Someone asks for the score, and someone answers. The dishwasher runs through its second cycle. The kitchen floor is sticky where a drink went over, and the light above the sink is the only one on in that room. The ladle handle rests against the rim of the slow cooker.

10:40 p.m.

The fourth quarter is on, and the room is on its feet. Most of us are standing in front of the television, and the folding chairs are pushed against the dining-room wall. The couch is empty except for a throw pillow that fell off. The slow cooker is off, the cord wrapped loosely around its base. The upstairs hall is dark. Cars are starting out front one by one, and the headlights cross the living-room wallpaper. Every time the back door opens, the cold pushes in and the kitchen curtains lift. A car idles in the street with its brake lights on. The game is down to its last minutes, and no one in the room is sitting down. The throw pillow lies on the carpet, one corner folded under.

11:50 p.m.

The game is over. The last guests are upstairs finding their coats by the light at the top of the stairs. I go up after them, take my coat off the pile, thank my friend's mother, and walk out to the car. The folding chairs are folded and stacked by the back door, the metal legs making one square column. The engine turns over and catches, and the windshield is clear except for a half-moon of frost at the bottom. The streets are wet and empty, and the heat comes up by the time I pull into my own garage. I cut the engine and sit for a moment in the dark. The car sits in the garage with the motor off, the hood ticking as it cools.