1
Walking toward a streetlamp, watching it flicker, Yohan takes a deep breath, and exhales his last puff. He checks his right chest pocket, he feels assured, a bit crisp. His drip is intact, steps are confident, stride is solid.
Yohan, is the third of five siblings - a fact he doesn't usually mention. He likes the number five. He is carrying five of those - enough for the night.
The flickering streetlamp is an old friend. He doesn't remember when he started considering it an old friend, but it is. It flickers in patterns that he recognizes.
He walks past the liquor store - the same one he walked past yesterday, and the day before that. The same one he's walked past for the past five years.
He likes this street. It's quiet. The houses are dark. The trees are tall. The air is crisp. The only sound is the rustling of leaves and the chirping of crickets.
But this street is not his street. Not tonight. He boards the bus.
Twenty one minutes. He chewed one bamboo toothpick and a strawberry gum. Turned five pages of a Neil Gaiman book, didn't read a word. The rhythm of the bus was comforting. The day was very hot, night is warm. The kinds of warm, you feel almost sweaty, but you don't sweat. A sticky sensation that clings your skin - it never touches you, nor does it leave. It is there, around you, surrounding you. A warm cloud of nothing. Not a bad thing, just a thing. A warm, sticky nothing.
He gets off the bus. Walks up the steps. Knocks on the door. Exchanges a warm, almost hearty greeting and slides into the room. He entered many times. Suhanna, bites her lips. Yohan doesn't hesitate, he can't afford to. His body is trained, tactile, automated. He takes off his shoes, slides the door shut, and sinks into the familiar curves of the couch. His mind slows. The city noise fades to a distant hum. He accepts a wonderful, warm cup of tea from Suhanna. He always does. Her tea is something else. Yohan tried her recipes, but it never hits the mark. Suhanna smiles, shivers a bit. They both sip on their tea, mostly in silence. The clinking of the spoons against the porcelain, the hum of the refrigerator, the occasional sigh. Yohan closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and settles into the familiar. But, not for long. He has to keep moving.
2
The second toothpick snaps between his teeth. Yohan flicks it into the gutter and turns left on Morrow. The houses here are nicer. Not nice — nicer. The lawns are cut. The driveways have two cars. The porch lights are on but dim, the way people leave them when they want to look like they're home but don't want to be seen.
He checks his phone. One message. An address he already knows, confirmed with a period. No emoji, no name. Just the period. That's Lorraine.
Lorraine's door is unlocked. It always is, on these nights. He lets himself in, locks it behind him. The hallway smells like vanilla and something clinical — lotion, maybe, or rubbing alcohol. He can't tell anymore. Both, probably.
She's in the kitchen. Robe on. Hair wet. Glass of wine half gone, another one poured and waiting for him on the counter. He doesn't drink it. He never drinks it. She pours it every time.
"You're early," she says.
"I'm on time."
"That's what I said."
She smiles. He doesn't. Not because he's cold — because the smile comes later, when it's useful. Right now he's reading the room. The wine glass is half gone, not a third, which means she started early, which means she's anxious, which means tonight is not the usual. Something happened. A phone call, maybe. A conversation she didn't want to have. He doesn't ask.
He takes off his jacket, folds it once, lays it on the chair by the door. Checks his chest pocket before he sets it down — a small motion, automatic, the way you'd touch your wallet. Everything is there.
"Living room or—"
"Bedroom," she says. Too fast.
He nods. Follows her down the hall. Her feet are bare on the hardwood. His shoes are still on. He'll take them off at the door of the bedroom, not before. There is an order to things.
The bedroom is warm. She keeps it warm. The sheets are pulled back already, which tells him she's been in there once tonight already, lying down, getting up, coming to the kitchen, pouring the wine, pouring his wine, waiting. The pillows are dented. The bedside lamp is on the lowest setting.
Yohan rolls his sleeves. Slowly. One cuff, then the other. He is not performing, but he is aware that she is watching, and he lets her watch. There is a difference. He places his hands flat on the dresser for a moment, steadies something inside himself — not nerves, not hesitation, just the shift. The gear change between the street and whatever this room requires him to be.
"Same as last time?" he asks.
She sits on the edge of the bed. Pulls the robe tighter.
"More."
He nods again. Opens his left hand and extends it toward her, palm up. She reaches for him.
Whatever happens next, happens behind a closed door. The wine in the kitchen goes warm. The porch light stays dim. Somewhere down the hall, his jacket sits folded on the chair, chest pocket full, undisturbed.
Forty minutes later, Yohan steps out of Lorraine's house the same way he entered — quietly, door locked behind him. He stands on the porch for a moment. Pats the jacket. Checks the pocket. One less.
He starts walking.