Until I Wrote Him
A pair of rats scatter when my shoes hit the steps.
I hesitate under the awning, not because I’m afraid, but because I need to be sure of what I’m doing.
The list said apartment 4B. That’s all. No name, no phone number, just a debt that could drown a city block and one that I intended to exploit to my benefit.
I push the door open. The hallway yawns before me, narrow, claustrophobic, walls damp with age. Somewhere a baby cries; somewhere else, a television murmurs to itself.