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INTERLUDE

February 3, 2019

The fourth-floor window, the one with the warm salt lamp and the figurine of a rocket ship on the windowsill, comes alive with light.

She’s finally home.

There are shadows on the visible slice of the ceiling. Silhouettes of the people inside, dancing and shrinking and changing shape. Like the games children play in the comfort of their beds, toying with the dark, manipulating its form with their fingers, pretending like they aren’t frightened of it.

The air inside the truck is frigid and stale. There’s no heat on, because that requires the car to run. That would be an announcement. Here I am. The driver sits at the wheel, waiting, watching the frost creeping up the glass, relishing the burn of the winter freeze. There’s no reason to rush. This night feels like it could go on forever. This night is the world at its best. Vicious, black, and cold.

In ása’s window, there’s the briefest flash of a face. The boy.

He’s my friend, she’d insisted. We’re close. It’s not like you think.

The lying whore.

In time, the silhouettes disappear. The light turns off. There’s nothing left in the window but the glow of the salt lamp. Like a taxi’s light. Open for business.

But still, there’s no reason to rush.

The girl falls out the front door. She’s unsteady, and she’s alone. No boy with her this time. Did he stay inside, with ása?

The girl turns left. She’s halfway down the street when she stops. She looks back, to the fourth-floor window. She, like the driver, feels the draw of that salt lamp. Something in the girl breaks. There’s a sound, audible from across the street. A sound like crying. Then she’s walking again, weaving her way to her own building.

Finally, there’s nothing left but the salt lamp and the truck. The key’s already in the ignition. It’s the work of a moment to turn the engine on. The headlights are dazzling. The truck idles, while the driver decides what to do. There is no plan. There is only the rage, turning the body to stone.

The imprint of a hand appears in ása’s window.

One flick of the driver’s fingers, one flicker of the headlights.

The imprint fades.

The driver waits.

The front door opens again. ása walks outside, wearing nothing but her thin shirt, leggings, and boots. She stumbles on the ice. The driver doesn’t move to help her. Too mesmerized by her, even now, even in the grip of fury. ása’s breath billows out of her mouth in a white cloud, floating around her white-blond hair like a halo. The night here is a wonder. Vicious, black, and cold.

ása makes it to the truck. To the open window.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asks. Her face is a mask of hatred. It’s so ugly, and so beautiful. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”

“I don’t know,” the driver tells her, “but I’m so sorry.” There is no plan, but the words spill out so easily. “I read your message, ása, and I agree with you. I will leave you alone. I will do anything you want me to. Please, can you get in the car? You’re shivering. I just need to talk to you. Then I will leave you alone forever. I promise.”