Early Morning, Thursday - July 16th
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He can hear her upstairs. Rattle, shake, squeak. It’s 4:50 in the morning. He forgets about it.
Four minutes later she is on the stairs. She’ll see the light from under his door, and then what? He doesn’t have time to turn it off, to jump in bed and pretend sleep. The door to the stairs creaks open and he can imagine her there, just outside his room, biting her lip.
She knocks. “Hey.”
He clears his throat in answer, and his voice cracks at her. “Hey, what’s going on?”
She tries to open the door but can’t. She tries again. He’s standing up now, trying not to look like he’s been waiting.
The girl from upstairs comes in, and he can see right away that she’s been crying. “Are you okay?”
“I had a bad dream. I dreamed something really bad happened to my nephew. And I woke up and now I don’t want to go back to bed.”
He doesn’t know what to do. Should he hug her? Fold her in his arms and tell her it’s all right? He can’t do that. So he stands there. He follows her into the kitchen where they stand awkwardly and mumble about the whereabouts of the cat that should have been sleeping with her. And why is he still up?
In the living room they sit on the couch and watch an episode of a sitcom. When it ends she says she’s going back to sleep, but doesn’t move until he gets up first, to put a cup in the sink. She passes him in the hall and climbs back up the stairs.
“Good night,” he says. She doesn’t answer.
It’s 5:40 and he’s sitting alone, willing the sun to rise.
Rise.
