The Break of Dawnn

The Break of Dawnn

The window hadn't decided what it was yet.

Glass, eventually.

For now, a mirror.

The room floated inside it—hanging lights, empty tables, the pale menu above the counter. Beyond my reflection, buildings pressed themselves into a sky still too dark to separate one thing from another.

My coffee had stopped steaming.

Someone stepped to the counter behind me.

“Large.”

The house was too large after the children left.

Five bedrooms. Four upstairs. One downstairs because someday we'd be old and stairs would become negotiations.

Five bicycles leaned against the garage.

Blue.

Green.

Black.

Yellow.

The little pink one with the crooked training wheel I kept promising—

“Vanilla latte.”

Fifth Avenue.

Rain suspended beneath streetlights.

Her coat was burgundy.

Red.

Burgundy.

There’s a difference.

Wet hair crossed her mouth. She caught it with one finger and tucked it behind her ear.

Silver clasp on her purse.

Black polish chipped from one thumbnail.

Water moved along the curb carrying cigarette filters, leaves, pieces of paper—little pieces of the city disappearing underground.

She stepped over the puddle.

I stepped into it.

Her mouth opened.

Laughter, probably.

The sound is gone.

“Whole milk.”

Sunday morning.

Bare feet across kitchen tile.

Cereal going soft in five bowls.

Four.

The television too loud in another room.

“Stop touching your brother.”

“I’m not.”

“I can see you.”

“He started it.”

“Mom!”

A spoon struck porcelain behind me.

Black glass.

My face.

A grinder swallowed the room.

Then stopped.

“Two extra shots.”

Flash.

Yellow rain boots.

Flash.

A missing front tooth.

Flash.

Seven plates around a table.

No—

six.

Someone was always late.

Flash.

A teenage door slamming upstairs.

Flash.

White flowers.

Flash.

A cap and gown.

Flash.

Her beside me.

Older.

Flash.

Older.

Flash.

Silver.

“Two pumps vanilla.”

Fifth Avenue.

Snow this time.

Or rain.

Twenty-four.

Twenty-three.

Her coat was burgundy.

There’s a difference.

The bakery door opened.

Warm sugar escaped onto the sidewalk.

She stopped.

Closed her eyes.

Breathed in.

Cars waited inside puddles. A drop rested on the end of her eyelash.

She opened her eyes.

Caught me looking.

“What?”

Nothing.

“You're staring.”

Nothing.

Her smile.

Maybe.

“Extra hot.”

July.

No sheets.

The ceiling fan turning too slowly.

Her fingertip moving against my chest.

One circle.

Another.

Another.

“What do you think happens to us?”

Five bicycles.

Christmas lights.

A refrigerator covered in drawings.

A small hand inside mine.

“What?”

“Light foam.”

Her face wouldn't come back.

The scar near her eyebrow.

Wet hair across her mouth.

The chipped thumbnail.

Burgundy.

There’s a difference.

Eyes belonged somewhere above the scar.

A nose.

A mouth.

I knew the pieces.

The pieces didn't know each other.

“Can you leave a little room?”

The nursery was empty.

Two rectangles of afternoon light lay across unfinished hardwood.

She stood in the center with her hands on her hips.

“Yellow.”

“No.”

“Yellow.”

“Green.”

“Yellow.”

“Green.”

We stared at each other.

She smiled first.

A paint roller leaned against the wall.

Her hand found mine.

The room filled.

A crib against the far wall.

A mobile turning above it.

A stuffed rabbit facedown beneath the window.

Another bed.

Another.

Five names written in pencil beside dates on the doorframe.

Crayon on drywall.

Fingerprints around light switches.

A tooth beneath a pillow.

The little pink bicycle abandoned in the driveway.

A prom dress hanging from a door.

Cardboard boxes.

College.

Silence.

“Just a little.”

The nursery was empty.

No crib.

No rabbit.

No names.

Sunlight on unfinished hardwood.

Her hand wasn't in mine.

A chair moved behind me.

I didn't turn.

“Anything else?”

Everything.

Five bedrooms.

Five bicycles.

Four bowls.

Seven plates.

The little pink one.

Christmas mornings.

A broken wrist.

The first day of school.

The last day of school.

College tuition.

A leaking roof.

The dog we weren't supposed to keep.

Her father's funeral.

My mother's empty eyes.

A slammed door.

A forgotten anniversary.

The cabinet hanging crooked because I said I'd fix it tomorrow.

Her book open facedown beside the bed.

Her reading glasses.

Her feet finding mine beneath the blankets.

Her hair—

Silver.

Everything.

“No. That's it.”

The house was quiet.

She stood at the bottom of the stairs.

Five bedrooms.

Doors open.

No voices.

Along the wall, pencil marks climbed toward adulthood.

Dates.

Names.

Heights.

She touched one.

Then another.

Another.

The smallest stopped halfway up.

Her finger stayed there.

The little pink bicycle.

Crooked training wheel.

I promised—

“Cash or card?”

Green numbers crossed black.

A hospital bracelet.

Her hand inside mine.

Small.

Almost transparent.

Silver hair against white linen.

The scar beside her eyebrow.

Her face—

No.

The scar.

Her hand.

Her hair.

Her face wouldn't—

“You still owe me.”

The cabinet.

Crooked twenty years.

Her thumb against mine.

“Tomorrow.”

Green numbers.

Silver.

“You always say tomorrow.”

Her hand—

“It'll ask you a question.”

Her eyes opened.

“What?”

The screen glowed behind me.

“What?”

Five bicycles.

“What?”

Fifth Avenue.

“What?”

The little pink one.

“What?”

“Just answer on the screen.”

Yes.

No.

Maybe.

Stay.

Go.

Again.

Please.

“Yes.”

Beep.

“Approved.”

Snow.

Fifth Avenue.

She was twenty-four.

Twenty-three.

The bracelet was gone.

Silver gone.

Her hair—

Dark.

Maybe.

Burgundy remained.

There’s a difference.

She walked ahead of me.

Three steps.

I followed.

People crossed between us.

Umbrellas.

Headlights.

Rain.

Snow.

Twenty-three.

Seventy-three.

Twenty-four.

Thirty-six.

Twenty-three.

Her hand became young inside mine.

Mine didn't.

Five bicycles leaned against a garage behind her.

Four.

Five.

The little pink one.

“For here or to go?”

Here.

Her hand beneath the awning.

Here.

Yellow rain boots.

Here.

A child asleep against her shoulder.

Here.

The nursery.

Here.

The empty nursery.

Here.

Seven plates.

Here.

Six.

Here.

The dog asleep beneath the table.

Here.

The little pink bicycle.

Here.

The empty place where the little pink bicycle should have been.

Here.

Her feet beneath the blankets.

Here.

Silver.

Here.

Twenty-three.

Here.

A hospital bracelet.

Here.

Fifth Avenue.

Here.

Rain.

Here.

Snow.

Here.

Burgundy.

Red.

There’s a difference.

“Sir?”

My hands were still wrapped around the same cup.

A chair scraped tile.

Steam hissed.

The register opened.

Closed.

My reflection hovered over the street.

Outside, darkness had begun giving things back.

A curb.

A fire hydrant.

Windows across the street.

She stood between them.

Twenty-three.

Seventy-three.

Twenty-three.

Silver hair beneath falling snow.

Wet hair across her mouth.

Young hand inside my old one.

Five children behind her.

Four.

None.

The house behind them.

Yellow nursery.

Empty nursery.

The little pink bicycle.

Her face.

Almost.

“What?”

She moved closer.

The scar.

“What?”

Her thumbnail.

“What?”

Burgundy.

“What?”

I could see her.

I could finally—

“ORDER UP!”

Ceramic struck wood.

“Thanks.”

“Have a good morning.”

The door opened.

Cold air touched the back of my neck.

The door closed.

A man walked past my table carrying a paper cup.

Across the street, a delivery truck sat at the curb with its hazards blinking.

Water ran toward a storm drain.

The traffic light changed from red to green.

Nobody crossed.

A woman in a dark coat walked quickly along the opposite sidewalk.

The building behind her was brick.

Four floors.

Metal fire escape.

Three windows lit.

A white van parked beneath it.

My coffee was cold.

I looked at the window.

My face was faint in the glass.

A truck passed through my chest.

The traffic light changed where my heart should have been.

More light reached the street.

My reflection disappeared.

I could see through the window.

The chair across from me was empty.

It had always been empty.