THE SYNDROME

The air tastes like cutlery and salt. It lay smooth and cold on a furry white tongue that he runs over rows of cluttered teeth. His mouth is a crowded room, a subway car during rush hour, a deadline. He presses the third floor buzzer and then slips his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt to hold them there and feel the beads of pulled material accumulating; the wear and tear of every day that sneaks by. Everyday that is exactly the same as the last. When he breathes out, he breathes out smoke. When he breathes in, he breathes in savory metal. He runs one hand over the back of his neck as the door opens and the warmth inside hits him like an air bag.

* * *

The window in her bedroom is open, even though there is frost crystallized like cracked glass on the window. She lay belly down on her bed, a mattress in a corner, reading from a book that she’s been trying to finish for months. She places the book on the ground, lays her head across her forearms, and begins to mentally play out a conversation she would like to have. Before she gets to the crux of the internal dialogue, a cool stream of wind whistles down her spine and the apartment buzzer sounds. She flies off the bed to answer the door, but stops cold as she glimpses a shadow escape through the window. A shadow so palpable she could have run the back her hand along its cheek, licked its teeth, pricked the bottom of its foot with a needle and sewed it back to a body before it could fly out into the piercing dusk.