There was a strange absence of noise when Sam nudged open the door to the roof of the apartment building. It was as though the city was holding its breath.
Or maybe Sam was.
Only there was no need for him to do that.
Because all that was in front of him was the rust-pitted cylindrical pedal bin that had been holding the door partially open, a short expanse of tarred and gritted roofing felt and a waist-high perimeter wall.
The roofing felt and the brick wall were clotted with moss and bird droppings. The bin was stained in different ways. Water streaks and cigarette ash, mostly. A quick glance beneath the lid revealed a mosaic of spent butts and a puff of stale weed.
The lid squeaked slightly as he lowered it and that bothered him, but not as much as being here did.
This wasn’t like him.
It wasn’t what he did.
He planned and thought things through.
He waited.
He watched from afar.
But today had changed him.
Seeing her so close had changed him.
And the thought of losing her, from right in front of him, when he’d been so careful, when she was so perfect . . .
A sudden, agonizing pain arced between his temples like a snap of electricity.
He locked his jaw but the sensation intensified, sinking down through his cheeks, invading his gums.
That was when he heard it.
A low, humorous whisper.
A shushed chuckle.
Suppressed giggles.
He remained motionless but inside he was rocking.
More shushing and giggles, coming from somewhere behind him.
He strode forwards, stepping out through the doorway into a darkness that wasn’t really dark, in the way no city skyline can ever be completely lightless.
The sodium glare shifted around him like a spectral fog, grit crunching under his shoes, one finger raised in the air as he emerged from the cover of the doorway as if to point, or jab, or admonish them in a futile, teacherly way, which was rendered even more futile because they didn’t see or hear him, weren’t aware of him, transfixed as they were by one another.
The Athlete and the Artist.
Their bodies close.
Their faces closer.
His hand circling her forearm just below her elbow.
The joint between her fingers.
And their heads tilted just so, lips parted ever so slightly, suspended in that short pause of assessment and appraisal, attraction and lust.
The Athlete leaned in closer.
The Artist leaned towards him in turn.
Sam started to run.