The Night Watchman
the room was dead cold, but it drew you in anyway, the same way you’ll drink the sticky dregs from a flat bottle left on a sill just for the short buzz. she lay next to me, a wet catch in her chest that came and went with every breath. cold skin. she didn’t open
Platform 2
stiletto snaps sharp on concrete, ankle caves in with a wet twist of pain. platform 2, breathless and running late for the six forty-five to London, the dawn cold slicing through bones. her lips crack audibly in the frost, Marlboro smoke curling warm and bitter around a flushed face shadowed by a sheepskin hat, arms