First Light

Thursday.

The door stood open a hand’s width. It had stood open all night. The cold had come in. The flat was cold. The kitchen was dark.

I was at the front door. I was dressed. I did not remember dressing. My hand was on the door. It had been there a long time.

The corridor was clear. The streetlights were still on. It was the hour before the first bus.

The flat was empty behind me. It was always empty. I did not look back. I had left everything. Nothing to carry.

The boy was there. He was always there. Not in the room. In me.

The water is running. It has always been running. It is his. It is mine. The count is there. Twenty-four. The wall is close. The name is in my mouth.

No words. One body at the door. Two minds. One step to the street.

He had asked. He had said we would find out. The dawn was the answer. He wanted out. Out was here.

The door was open. I was not closing it. I was not afraid.

One of us pushed the door wide and stepped through.

I walked out. He stayed.

I stayed. He walked out.

The step was his. It was mine. It was the same step. It was one of the two. That was all there was to say.

The street was cold. It was bare. It was ordinary. The store on the corner was dark. It would open later. The one who had walked out went to the corner and stood in the first light.

The walk to the corner was the first walk of the day. It was fourteen years of running. Or twenty-seven years of stillness. The stride did not say which. The city did not notice. No one was there to see.

The static was gone. Or it had become the sound of the street. Or it had never been there at all.

The light came in through the open door. It was grey. It was the first light. It was for one of us. Neither of us could say which.

Hao.