It was six-twenty-eight in the morning. The street was quiet. The sky had gone from black to a flat pale grey.
Ezoic
At six-thirty-one, the truck operator began working near the front wheels.
At six-thirty-three, Denise’s bedroom light came on.
I actually glanced at the clock on the microwave when it happened. I don’t know why that detail still makes me smile. The sequence of it, the light appearing at exactly the right moment, the universe demonstrating a rare and satisfying sense of timing.
The curtains snapped open.
Three seconds of stillness.
The curtains snapped shut again.
Ten seconds later, Denise’s front door opened and she came out in slippers and a dressing gown, moving at the speed of someone who has realized something has already gone wrong and is hoping to arrive in time to prevent it from going further wrong.
“What are you doing?” she said.
