A Porch Light in the Dark

The walk took the edge off my legs before it did anything for my head.

By the time Lena picked up, my fingers were red around the phone and my breath came out in thin white pulls. I had been on the sidewalk so long the blocks blurred together, porch lights sliding past me one after another, every house warm behind its windows.

She answered on the second ring.

“Hey.”

My throat closed for a second. I stopped under a streetlamp and stared at the cracked paint on the pole.

“Can I come over?”

There was no pause.

“Yeah. Of course. Are you close?”

“No.”

“Okay,” she said, fast and steady. “Keep walking. I’ll leave the porch light on.”

I swallowed hard and kept my voice low. “I’m serious.”

“I know.”

That was worse than anything else, because she did know. She always did. She didn’t ask me to explain on the sidewalk, didn’t make me sort my mess into neat pieces before she’d let me through the door.

“Come here,” she said. “We’ll deal with it when you get here.”

The next stretch was just cold and footsteps.