We leave the hostel together, hands tight and legs swinging with abandon, skin brushed by hot wind swirling down skyscraper corridors.
“Who do you think will die first?” I mock with a smile.
Living with fear, deep, dehabilitating fear, for so many years… it made it breathing, palpable. It attached to our lives like an obsequious friend who greeted us without fail the moment we stepped outside. He stared into our eyes with tender concern and took our hands, hands which shook with suppressed, helpless loathing.
She laughs, slaps my arm lightly. “We’re dead without each other, right? We’re past that now.”
“You’re right. Do you remember…” I hesitated.
“Remember what?”
“Two weeks ago, we ordered delivery from that Thai place, over the phone–”
We had taken savage pleasure in herding him up flights of stairs; smooth black tape covering his mouth and arms pulled hard behind his back. Through the top hatch into bright sunlight on the rooftop, a hasty shove over the edge to the streets below.
“–Thai Time–”
“–Thai Time, but when the doorbell rang, and we went up the hall, we were too scared to open it–”
“–we sat down, huddled on the cold tiles and waited for the ringing, waited for the ringing to stop and the shadow outside to leave, and we went to bed hungry–”
It had taken months of perseverence. It was exhilarating to confront him. It was dizzying, like dangling our feet over the ledge and watching him curve in final grace, plummet down and down.
“Let’s eat there tonight.”
