Emergency Exit

The stairwell smells like mould and cold metal and somebody's fabric softener from the fourth floor.

I'm on the landing between three and four when I hear you crying above me. Not the quiet kind. The kind that has to stop to breathe.

I should keep going. I sit down.

Through the concrete I can feel it a little, or think I can. You're wearing red Converse. They're the only thing in the stairwell that has a color.

We don't talk about it that night. We don't talk about it any night.

Second night you bring gummy bears. Third night I bring Caramilks. Fourth night neither of us brings anything. Eventually we split a sleeve of soda crackers you had in your bag.

"You ever think about sleeping here?"

"Only in theory."

The super finds us on day seven. Fire hazard, he says, which is technically correct.

You leave a business card on the step. I write my number on a wrapper and put it under the card.

Neither of us calls. I see you at the recycling once, in October, and we both do the nod.