Emergency Exit

A Love Story in Three Flights

The stairwell of my apartment building smells like mold and cold metal. I’m on the landing between the 3rd and 4th floor when I hear you crying above me. Not the pretty kind; the ugly, gasping kind that makes your ribs hurt.

I should keep walking. Instead, I sit.

Through the concrete, I imagine the vibration of your sobs. You’re wearing red Converse. I notice because they’re the only bright thing in this gray space.

On the second night, you bring gummy bears. On the third, I bring Caramilks. We don’t exchange names, just the flavor of glucose and dental gunk.

“You ever think about sleeping here?” you ask.

“Only metaphorically,” I lie.

The super kicks us out on day seven. Says we’re a fire hazard.

You leave a business card on the steps. I leave my number written on a wrapper.

Neither of us calls.

Some fire hazards are better left uncontained.