Perhaps tomorrow

She might be there in the window.

It might be her.

He turns and walks quickly away.

Did she see him? Is that her there in the doorway?

He screws his eyes tight and detaches himself from his fear, which he tells himself is fear alone.

It subsides, but she’s still there. He opens his eyes and there she is.

There in the rivets fixing the drainpipe to the wall, in its old bricks, the frame, the ancient, warped glass and the man standing behind it, looking down onto the street, in his eyes.

Jason looks away; away he walks.

Six days ago he slipped away. He woke in the morning, early.

Very early.

And she was standing over him with a blade.

And she said,

“not today. Perhaps tomorrow.”

He fled that morning, taking his chance.

He’s seen her each morning since, just before waking, suddenly.

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