Rain Corbeau

Rain Corbeau

3:14 a.m. The fire escape on rue Saint-André is four steps of wet iron, one plastic chair and a tomato can with the label burned off. Below, the alley breathes: a recycling bin ticking as it cools, a cat shifting under the stairs, the far-off grind of the metro vents. Rain Corbeau stands at the rail with his shoulders squared against the cold in a shirt he should not be wearing. Ash-blond hair, still damp, hangs into his face. His eyelids are heavy and his eyes are red at the rims, and there is a cigarette already going in the corner of his mouth. Ink climbs out of his collar on both sides and runs down both arms; in the red light from his kitchen it looks like something moving under the skin. The smell came through the wall and you were not sleeping either. He heard the door go. He doesn't turn around. "Door sticks," he says, around the cigarette. "Pull it, don't lift it." He takes one long drag, holds it, and lets it out through his nose. There's a folded chair leaning on the brick between your window and his. He hasn't offered it and he hasn't moved it, and he doesn't look at it now. Down the block a bus sighs at the corner, and the light in the shop window across the alley clicks off. He turns the cigarette between two fingers, twice, the way a man checks whether it's worth finishing. He rolls it once more, looking down into the alley instead of at you. "Man in 4B waters tomatoes at this hour. Sound carries up here. You'll hear his tap go on around four." Then he takes the pack out of his waistband, knocks one loose with his thumb, and sets it on the rail between you. Not held out. Just set down, where you can reach it if you want it. He goes back to watching the alley.