Somewhere around Two A.M.

The streets are quiet.

As a rule of thumb, things around here are always quiet at two in the morning. In this town the streets roll up at eight. I heave the trash bag into the Dumpster, listening to the sound of glass breaking as it hits the metal floor. It’s been a while since I cleaned up the old homestead. Taking out the trash was the easiest way to rid myself of the clutter. Most of it was empty bottles and cigarette butts. It’s too bad I can’t get rid of memories as easily as I got rid of the garbage. I close the Dumpster’s lid and turn toward the street, lighting a cigarette and pausing momentarily to feel the brash smoke scratch the back of my throat. I cough, feeling the years of built-up tar rattle harshly in my chest. I make my way down the alley and into the streetlight.

I’ve been feeling like shit for the last ten years. I guess that’s what dames’ll do to a guy. Make them feel like dirt, spend their money, and walk away with their noses held high. That is, if they don’t kill you first. I still have the scars from every woman I’ve ever been with. Not all of the scars are emotional. People will tell you that, given enough time, every wound can heal. I never did buy that. Just because something is healed doesn’t mean it’s gone for good. They’re called scars for a reason. When it comes to scars, all you can really do is let the pain subside and hope that you can keep them hidden from the world. Quill was one of the gaping holes in my life that would never fully mend. Just when she started to scab over, something would tear her open again and the blood would rush back to the surface. Every week it was a new battle wound, always in the same spot and deeper every single time. All that changed a few weeks ago, though, when I left Quill in the dust. I had to stop the problem at its source.

In all actuality, we parted ways months ago. Neither one of us said anything to the other, we just kept on going through the motions like couples do. Eva and I had gone through the motions for two and a half years before she threw in the towel and we went our separate ways. Eva was the girl before Quill. Compared to Eva, my time with Quill was a cakewalk. Eva left the biggest scar on me, but I know I left a few marks of my own on her.

With Quill, I took as much as a man can take. I heard enough of the lies. I felt enough of the deceit. I had enough of the messing around behind my back. Enough was enough. I gave her an ultimatum. I told her to make a decision, and when she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, I walked away.

The scabbed-over mass of blood hasn’t fully healed yet. She still haunts most of my days. She’d probably haunt all of them if I didn’t drink. It’s helped to speed up the healing process. At least I have that going for me.

It’s not a surprise that booze helps take the edge off. Liquor has always helped in heartbreak. It helped me with Eva. It’s helped me with Quill, and the surprise won’t falter when it helps me with the next heartbreak as well.

And the one after that.

And the one after that.

At this point, nothing surprises me anymore. I walk up the softly illuminated street to the corner, where I turn and see a bum sleeping on the stairway, overflowing trash cans behind him. When I reach my doorway, I’m not done with my cigarette yet. The landlady doesn’t allow smoking in the apartments. Usually I do it anyway, but tonight I had to take the garbage out.

I jingle my keys around, looking for the big square brass one, and flick my cigarette aside. I exhale one final breath of soothing smoke and unlock the front door to the building. I step inside, pausing for a moment to look up the two flights of stairs that loom ahead. With the drinks sloshing around inside me, the stairs look twice as difficult. Knowing full well there’s no other way around them, I lower my head like a charging bull and commence the monstrous climb. That’s when I notice the pale green envelope.

I stop midlurch and grab hold of the railing, staring down at the envelope. As I wait for the red letters scrawled on the front to stop being blurry, I wonder if the glue on the envelope tastes like a mint ice cream cone. After what feels like a decade, the exquisite cursive comes into focus.

Levi Maurice.

The letter is addressed to me.

I stare at the envelope for another minute, deciding whether or not I should open it. No good can come from an anonymous mint green envelope with red writing left on a stairway. Words to live by in my world. I snatch up the letter, holding it tightly in my clenched fist, and I stumble up the remainder of the stairs to my apartment.

I get to the doorway and shove open the door, which is unlocked. I could say that I did that because I knew taking out the trash would only take me a few minutes. The truth is I was too drunk to lock the door behind me.

Inside, I flip on the light and Luna immediately starts giving me grief. The tone of her voice is rapid and accusing. Accusing of what, I’m not sure, but accusing nonetheless.

I pick Luna up, still holding the letter, and give her a kiss on the cheek, scratching her behind the ears and listening to the accusations give way to soft purrs. I make my way to the kitchen and take out a container of tuna-flavored snacks. I pop the lid and feed her one. If only women were as easy to calm as their feline counterparts.

I slide into my vomit-colored armchair. Everyone I know hates the chair, but it’s cozy, so I keep it around. I sit for a few beats with my eyes closed to allow the room to stop spinning before I carefully tear the envelope open. I pull out the stationery inside. Same color as the envelope, same cursive writing. The letter is simple. Straight and to the point.

I need your help.

That’s all it says. Well, that and a phone number. The number isn’t one I recognize and there’s no name on the letter. I massage the bridge of my nose, wondering if two A.M. is too late to call. I convince myself that it is, knowing full well that I just want to rest up. Lord knows what kind of help this person needs, but I can only assume that it’s going to be taxing. It seems that, lately, all of my caseload is. I set the letter on the nightstand and muster every ounce of energy that I have to pull myself up from the chair just enough so I can collapse onto my futon.

Times like these, living in a studio apartment ain’t so bad.