Fire Escape

Anne rested her cheek against the wooden menu board and gazed at the second floor fire escape across the street.

Come out! Come out! Come out!

Usually he would appear... once, twice... or maybe three times in a night. Out he would crawl from the window, drink in hand. And then he'd light a cigarette and knock on the window next door. Pudgy-boy-next-door-who-is-always-watching-TV might stick his head out in response. Or give a protective pat to make sure his sad herb garden is not being tread upon.

He never seemed to look down--only exposed to Anne the underside of his dirty white socks. Only once had she seen him on the street. And then it was such a flurry. Before she could even take in his level proximity, his bike was saddled and he was flying off downtown, leaving her to suffer the night alone.

And what did he do? Did he work? He was never in the office. Always up there writing something. And smoking. And drinking. And having friends. In his early-nineties blue jeans and tee-shirts splattered with paint. Were they paint-covered or did she just want him to be an artist?

His body was agile though, like an actor's body. Like he could easily touch his toes. Like his own tension was shed so that he could take on the tension of a number of roles. Like he was relaxed in a way that she never could be.

Come out! Come out! Come out!

She kicked nothing in particular with her black high-top sneaker and then itched the back of her knee.

Ah! At last, up came the sash! It was dark, but she knew his outline well as he silhouetted in the window. He was alone, and his face was ignited to her as he lit his cigarette. He leaned back against the ladder, Jordan Catalano-style...and ran his uncigaretted hand through his longish hair.

Delicious.