I shut off my music and savor the cooler’s low hum while zipping up my backpack. Vinegar from the last batch of pasta salad lands bitter in each breath. I wipe the prep counter down one last time, so Les will smell the cleaner when he comes in.

It’s time for one last look and a mental audit of my task list. Three batches of pasta salad, made. Swiss, provolone, mild cheddar, and jarlsberg, sliced. Black forest ham, honey smoked turkey, buffalo chicken, prepped. Slicers, cleaned. Just in time for Les to come in and make a mess before the early morning rush. I set the timer on the bagel warmer before plopping down in the back office to roll myself a cig. Sumatran tobacco—the only stuff I smoke anymore. People think it’s weird that I roll my own. I won’t smoke the shit Phillip Morris calls high quality.

Les’s headlights flood the window. His car door bangs, and his keys jingle against the door. “Kelly?”

“I’m in here.”

“Kitchen looks good,” he says without looking. That’s one perk of being a long standing employee. EIther he knows I do a good job, or just doesn’t care enough to check.

“Thanks,” I say, pulling back the lever on my cigarette roller. “The slicer’s still jamming. It messed up a bunch of ham earlier. I minced it and added it to the ham salad.”

“Good call.” He picks up his Not My Problem mug and slogs toward the coffee maker.

My mouth waters looking down at the freshly rolled cylinder of heaven between my fingers. I reach in my left pocket and squeeze my Zippo. “Well, if you don’t have anything else for me, I think I’m gonna head out then.”

“Don’t you ever get scared walking home in the dark?”

“I actually like it. It’s so quiet.”

“Well, you know what they say about human trafficking and stuff. Just don’t get snatched, okay?”

I look down at my lumpy, bulbous stomach. My thick legs and mannish face keep me from being afraid. I want to ask who the hell would traffic this body? Instead, I smile and say, “I’ll be fine. I have pepper spray.”

Historic Booker Street—the thread running its frayed old fibers through Gehenna—waited for me, empty and silent. The clock on the belltower reads 4:07. I’m so glad to be gone before the morning rush. Dalrymples is its own circle of hell from five to seven AM. People blame things like not being a morning person, or not having their coffee yet for their shitty disposition. I bite my tongue instead of asking why they work in the morning then. You hate mornings? Do what I do and work at night.

I live my life in the in between. When the world sleeps, I make pasta salad and pre-made sandwiches for them. The people who happily wolf it down never stop to think that someone had to make this. Gloved hands put these ingredients together and wrapped it up in a neat little package. While they run an endless race in circles, I dream.

Joy Division—New Dawn Fades—starts up in my earbuds. I do an internal happy dance at the sheer perfection of this song for my walk.

Taking the most convoluted ways home possible so I see more hidden places is its own little game. Strange little brick buildings covered in ivy and graffiti, crumbling concrete stairs leading to black doors underground, yard mushrooms made of random stuff the maker probably thrifted or resurrected from a dumpster, and the occasional late night/early morning wanderer, like me. We pass without speaking, but we know—a comradery that floats above words.

I turn down Laurel and then onto Wolf Street. There’s a perfect smoking spot this way, at the picnic area behind one ancient apartment building. The way the warm light turns the grass lime and paints the picnic tables electric red, and angular shadows cast by the tables make me feel like I’m sitting in a painting on a random thrifted shop wall. At times it’s almost too much. And then I realize I’m one of the lucky ones. Most people will never appreciate this kind of beauty.

I perch on a table covered in doodles and crude musings in marker and rest my feet on the bench. The other table has an entire body traced on it in thick black sharpie. I never sit there.

I roll another cigarette and spark it up. The delightful burn of Sumatran smoke fills my lungs, coats my throat, and takes me away for a second. I don’t even know where Sumatra is. I just know they grow damn good smoke there. Crickets and the first cicadas to emerge this year serenade me. RIght now, this is better than Joy Division. Do they know how beautiful their song is? Are they singing just for me? Probably not. I’m probably the only one to ever stop and listen to them.

This building has been here for decades. A first floor window glows blue with filtered TV light. Dull gray shines in thin strips through blinds in a second floor apartment. On the third, green light frames the distinct silhouette of a cat.

I nod at him, and turn my head to blow out the smoke, even though it won’t reach him.

The first floor TV turns off. Someone’s either going to work or going to sleep. Hopefully it’s the latter.

A squirrel darts across the stone wall and up an oak tree.

The cat hasn’t moved. No tilt of the head, stretch of a paw, or flick of the tail.

I take another puff of my cigarette, and laugh softly at nothing. “You know,” I whisper, looking up at the scrappy feline, “They always say I should talk to someone. They never say who. You’ll do.”

A poster of a winged figure hangs on a wall behind him, either an angel or Pegasus, I can’t tell from down here.

The cherry glows as I take another long drag. “I’ll tell you a secret, window kitty,” I say. “People think I’m messed up in the head. In school I had to do all these psych evaluations and stuff. I had to take Ritalin in front of the whole class. They called me psycho girl, and crazy Kelly. I have a high IQ so I was bored in school.” I laugh again—so hard I double over and my head swims. Laughter I barely recognize echoes through the yard. My side cramps, and my cigarette falls to the grass. Wheezing, I wipe tears from my face. “I know I’m too smart to work in a deli. I could be a surgeon. Or a rocket scientist. But I don’t want to be responsible for saving lives and launching rockets. I could do those things. And then what? Die young from all the stress and never get to spend the money?” I sniffle and look down at the orange ember on the grass. “Forget that. I’ll make ham salad for the masses, and talk to window cats.”

I bend over to pick up my smoldering cigarette. Sumatran tobacco is too good to waste.

And that damn cat still hasn’t moved.

“So people think I’m crazy. Maybe they’re right,” I say, wiping tears from my face. “I’m sitting here at 4am telling a cat how smart I am. But you’re a good listener.” I finish my cigarette and snuff it out on a black sharpie request for “felatio,” and pocket the butt. “Does your owner let you go outside? Maybe tomorrow I’ll bring you some tuna.”

I stand up and pull out a sharpie from my backpack—the same one I use to label the large batches of salad at work—and add the second L. Can’t leave the night this sloppy.

“Maybe one day I’ll go to Sumatra and tell you all about it,” I whisper. He stretches and licks a paw. Thank the universe I didn’t just spill my guts to a statue. Buy tuna, I tell myself, walking away.

Author’s Note:

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The image above was created with DALL-E, in the future when life slows down a bit, I plan to use my own art for these stories. But for now, this works.

Thanks for reading.

V.