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 her eyes when the money went onto the laminate dresser under the cracked mirror. just turned her back, pulling the thin fleece blanket over her shoulders, already asleep before the coins stopped rattling. another hour paid for, another sixty minutes of quiet before the next boots came up the stairs.

the mattress smelled of old sweat, industrial bleach, and the kind of sharp self-pity that hangs thicker than stale tobacco. down the corridor, a hollow door slammed shut. a low murmur of voices through the plasterboard, then the rhythmic, mechanical squeal of bedsprings from number four.

I stared at the ceiling; grey plaster cracked into jagged lines. listened to her snore—a heavy, rattling sound that just went on and on until my ears went numb. no connection here, no warmth, just two heavy objects dropped into the same dark slot for the night.

no bottle on the nightstand, no warm beer left in the corner. just the sour rot seeping under the door from the communal landing. old onions. piss. the leftover weight of every bad turn.

outside, the market lights flickered and died one by one. the whole street folding up in the dark. left me there with her cold breath hitting my shoulder blade and the morning shift waiting to clear us all out.

cash on the dresser,
cold grease on the window glass,
just another hour.