Analogue Sheep : Vol 5 : Clark Kent's Day Off

He left the tie draped over the back of the chair. The glasses stayed on the sink.

He didn’t bother locking the door to the apartment.

Let the landlord knock. Let Lois call. Let Perry White chase his next overdue article. Today, he wasn’t Clark.

Today, he got to breathe.

Somewhere above the clouds, the air was thin and sweet. It carried no scent of traffic, no ink-stained deadlines, no arguments whispered in hallways.

Here, in the quiet above the atmosphere, he closed his eyes.

For a moment - just a moment - he wasn’t responsible for anything.

No train teetering on a bridge. No satellite about to fall. No landlord to pay. No relationship to navigate. No burning building or hostage situation.

No one to save.

And no one asking why he was late for lunch.

Clark Kent had always been the disguise.

The hunch of the shoulders, the stammer, the nervous apologies - he’d worn them like a costume, stitched together out of politeness and necessity.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love his life. He did, in the strange, sad way people love the version of themselves they’ve had to become.

But the bills were piling up. Lois had stopped laughing at his excuses. Perry’s voice had become a blunt instrument.

And every now and then, even Superman needed to fly for no reason at all.

He soared over the Pacific, skimming waves with his fingertips.

He raced between lightning bolts in a monsoon over Sumatra, let hail pelt his back just to feel something real.

He visited the dark side of the moon. Just stood there. Silent.

And for once, didn’t listen for the distant cry of the news desk with a breaking story.

Later, he drifted in orbit, legs crossed, watching the blue marble turn below.

The sun crept across the planet’s face.

And he imagined what it would be like to let go completely.

To vanish.

To be no one, nowhere.

But he couldn’t.

That was the thing about being Superman, he never really got a day off.

Only a pause.

So he returned just after midnight. The lights in the apartment were off.

The tie was still draped on the chair. The glasses waited, quietly, by the sink.

He sat on the edge of the bed and picked them up.

A deep breath.

The cape folded into a duffel bag. The spine bent just slightly.

And with a final exhale, he slipped the glasses back on.

Clark Kent was home.