Open Window

Leah had the key in her coat pocket and no intention of using it.

At the far end of the boardinghouse hall, the window had swollen in its frame from three days of rain. She worked it open with both hands. Paint cracked. The sash lurched upward. Cold air came in smelling of diesel, wet brick, and the bakery on Pell Street burning its first sugar of the morning.

Behind the closed door, Tom said her name once. Not loudly. That was his talent: turning a quiet voice into a hook.

Leah leaned out instead. Below, two smokers looked up from the curb. A bus sighed at the corner. Somewhere a bottle rolled in the gutter and struck the wheel of a parked cab with a clean little bell-note.

"You can come out here," she said to the door. "Or you can stay in there and be dramatic by yourself."

For a while nothing happened. Then the latch turned. Tom opened the door as far as the safety chain allowed and saw, not Leah waiting to be summoned, but Leah with the whole damp city behind her. The hallway was no longer private. Whatever he wanted from her would have to survive the air.