The strangest sensation, like teetering on a ledge, at once floating and falling, dizzy, disoriented. He grips his wrist and manages to splash cream into the steaming cup of coffee, but his trembling hand sends the sugar shaker flying off the counter — shining, spinning through the air — CRASH — shattering against the tiles.
The waitress is startled from her magazine, bleary eyes going wide, pretty pink lips rounding into an O.
He flushes red and mutters apologies, dropping off his stool and scrambling across the floor, trying the gather up the shards before the waitress arrives to help. An unforgiving edge slices into his palm, and he whimpers.
Black flats appear by his side.
“I’ll get that for you,” she soothes, and guides him back to his seat. She wraps his hands around a wad of napkins and tells him to press down. Sweeps away to retrieve a brush and pan.
His fingers are caked with sugar, tiny glittering crystals that catch the light if he holds his hand just so. Slowly staining a muddy red. He ducks his head, and presses down as instructed.
It’s far past midnight, and he likes to imagine that the rest of the world is asleep. Just the pretty waitress and the sleepless man awake as the city holds its breath and waits for dawn. A lady’s crooning voice tangles with the fuzz of radio static, a lopsided fan whirs overhead. Red vinyl booths and red swinging doors, shattered glass and bitter coffee.
Dark room, no lights, no noises.
The strangest sensation of floating and falling.
“Night shift?” the waitress asks as she sweeps.
He ventures a sip of coffee, creamy but still bitter. He could have used some sugar.
“No, nothing like that,” he says, shakily returning the cup to its saucer. “I just can’t sleep.”
“Well, a cup of coffee isn’t going to help you there, honey.”
Her eyes are ringed with dark shadows, as he knows his are. He takes it as a sign of kinship, smiles at her as she finishes up.
“I know,” he says, “but I figured I’d get so strung out that I’d loop around the other side, haha.” He immediately realizes that it wasn’t funny. He wishes his hands would stop shaking. “I’m sorry about your sugar.”
“We have more,” she says, retreating behind the counter. “Did you still want some? I can fill another shaker for you.”
“Don’t trouble yourself.” He stirs his coffee, but doesn’t drink it again.
A sudden rush of blood to the head, and he sways in his seat. His eyelids flutter closed, but his veins pump boiling blood, punishing adrenaline. The clink of his spoon, the crackle of the radio, drowned by the roaring in his ears.
“Are you alright, there, honey?”
Don’t overstimulate yourself, don’t watch television or get too excited. Designate regular sleeping hours. Don’t eat before bed. Dark room, no lights, no noises.
“Hey, can you hear me? Are you okay?”
He forces his eyes open, forces himself to focus on her face. If he just focuses on her face, the roaring fades. There’s a smattering of golden freckles across her nose.
“I’m fine.” A little too loud. He coughs, clears his throat. “I’m sorry, I’m just…”
She tilts her head to the side. “Hey, listen, why don’t you go home and get some rest? You don’t look so good.”
“Yeah,” he says, “Yeah, I really should.”
He fumbles his wallet, she waves a hand.
“Don’t worry about it, honey, you barely had any.”
He nods, and he thanks her, and he pushes through the red swinging doors, out into the night. She’s watching him through the window, and he hurries off like he’s going somewhere.
As soon as he’s out of sight, he slows to a walk. He pulls his coat tight around him and ventures into the dark.
The passing rain has made slick mirrors of the streets. Reflecting the green of traffic signals, luminous orbs of streetlights, dancing and blurring through bleary eyes. Bars on windows and the blue flicker of muted televisions.
Keep your mind off distressing topics, or troubles from your day. A cup of warm milk is known to soothe the nerves. We’ll find something that works for you.
In a neighbourhood lined with garbage bags, a slobbering dog throws itself against a chain link fence, snarling and emitting sharp barks like gunshots. The sleepless man reels, and he collides with a dull red town car. It shrieks with piercing indignation; loud enough to wake up the neighbourhood, loud enough to wake up the city.
He breaks into a lurching run. Bare branches replace lampposts, streets narrow, descend towards the water. The horizon flattens, and the wind hisses and bites and tries to send him back.
He makes his way towards Delaney Bridge.
Don’t worry about it, worry will keep you awake. Just try to sleep. No lights, no sounds, just try to sleep.
Eyes firmly shut, he walks an imaginary tightrope down the centre of Delaney Bridge. Five steps, six. His shoe hits an uneven patch of asphalt, and he inhales a sharp breath of night air, and he opens his eyes to catch his balance. Two more steps. His eyes sweep right over her — over and forward, then his aching mind makes sense of the image, and his gaze snaps back.
A woman, a frail thing in a white dress, faces out over the river with her back pressed against the guard rail. Holding on with a single hand, and swaying in the careless pull of the wind.
“Hey!” His voice comes out ragged; he’s afraid he might startle her, but she barely acknowledges the sound. “Hey!”
Edging closer. If he grabs her by the shoulders she won’t fall, but if she struggles… He’ll grab her wrist, he can hold on, he can pull her back if she lets go. He can hold on if his hands would just shop shaking.
Yellow hair, thin, ragged like straw, tugged into knots. She slips worn flats off her feet, and kicks them over the edge.
His hands are inches from hers and trembling violently. His breath comes in shallow puffs.
“Don’t do this,” he murmurs. “Please let me help you.”
She turns from the yawning void, anchors on him for a moment, faraway eyes in deep shadow. Her expression reacts with something peculiar, something unexpected, like compassion, like pity.
“You can’t help me,” she says, and she falls.
Far past midnight, and the rest of the city slumbers deeply. It’s warm inside the café with the red door, but the sleepless man shakes, from his shoulders to his fingertips.
“Are you alright?” The waitress flips through a magazine. She glances over at him, lips pursed.
“I’m fine,” he says, staring into his cup of black sludge. Out of the corner of his eye, a sugar shaker twinkles at him. “I just can’t sleep.”
“Well, a cup of coffee isn’t going to help you there, honey.” She tucks golden strands behind her ears, and smiles a pretty pink smile.
The whir of the ceiling fan is choppy, far too loud, and the lady on the radio groans. Dim fluorescents buzz — little insects crawling across his skin. The strangest sensation, like falling fast, like smashing to pieces.
We need to talk about why you’re not sleeping.
He covers his eyes with shaking hands.
“I haven’t slept in nine days,” he says, to no one in particular. “I’m starting to feel… I’m starting to feel a little strange.”
The waitress fiddles with the radio dial; she doesn’t respond.
He pays for his untouched coffee, and escapes into the night.
His shoes splash through puddles, scuff on rough asphalt. A flashing red hand, a flashing red light, cold night, ice crystals prickling his lungs. Televisions on, but nobody breathes in the sleeping city.
He shuts his eyes and lets his legs carry him through winding streets, across intersections — headlights make his eyelids glow red but they sweep past the sleepless man, the sleepwalking man.
Something’s bothering you. You can tell me about it. It helps to talk; it might help you sleep. Can you tell me what’s on your mind?
The roar of a dog, the crash of a chain link fence. The scream of a car alarm. Cursing, spitting, staggering down narrowing streets.
Dark room, no lights, no noise. Just relax.
Lines of streetlamps, glowing orbs all in a row. Blazing like a thousand suns, and leading him from the city, leading the way to Delaney Bridge.
She’s there, the woman with the straw hair. He doesn’t shout, he doesn’t breathe. He shakes in his skin and he tries to reach her while she’s still on solid ground.
She kicks off her flats, and they tumble out of sight. Distant, solid thumps, wrapped in the rush of the river. He’s inches away. She turns her head slightly. Delicate fingers loosen from the railing.
“Let’s talk about it.” Hands reaching, trembling, achingly slow. “Come back over the railing, and we’ll talk.”
She shakes her head, and straw hair sticks to pretty pink lips.
“You can’t help me,” she says, and she falls.
His forehead rests on the cool counter, by a lukewarm cup of black coffee. Sugar granules wink from a shaker. The lady on the radio is wailing, and the waitress hums along.
“I can’t sleep,” he tells her. “I haven’t slept in fifteen days. I asked my doctor, he said that’s probably not a good thing. You’re going to tell me to go home and get some rest, and I’ll say I will but I won’t. I’ll go walking and I’ll…”
“Night shift?” she asks. Her eyes crinkle in the corners when she smiles.
“I just want to sleep. I’ve tried. I’ve tried everything. Darkness, silence, pills, everything. Glasses of warm goddamn milk. Walking is the only thing that keeps me from scratching the paint off the walls.”
“Well, a cup of coffee isn’t going to help you there, honey.”
Her pretty face bends and warps like a funhouse mirror, and the radio static is tearing up the soft tissue in his ears. His fingers quiver, but he can’t feel them, and he has to laugh.
“Your coffee is disgusting; d’you know that?”
“Do you want some sugar? I can fill a shaker for you.”
He shakes his head, and he studies the shadows beneath her eyes. He has them too; much worse now. The inky bruises of night people, restless people. Exhaustion deeper than sleeplessness.
Her eyes are distant and deeply sad, but she smiles with those pretty pink lips. “Get some rest. You don’t look so good.”
Streets narrow and run downhill into the waterfront. Inky black buildings and a slick smear of red and green on the pavement. Branches overhead and garbage in the streets.
Frothing and growling, the dog throws itself against the fence.
“Shut up,” he says, as he passes.
Frigid night air pricks his skin, fills his skull and his lungs with needles, stabbing, drawing blood. His clothes slap at his flesh, his hair presses over his eyes. His impatient legs carry him, shivering and shaking, towards Delaney Bridge.
He doesn’t announce his presence, he doesn’t hesitate. His body strides forward with a resolve that his seething mind can’t replicate, and he closes in on the woman with the straw hair.
Steady fingers wrap around cold wrists. She flinches, but stays put.
“Come back over the railing,” he says.
She shakes her head, and her ragged hair tosses. “You can’t save me.” She kicks her flats into the void, where they’re distantly dashed upon the rocks.
“Just tell me what’s wrong,” he pleads. “We’ll find a way to fix it.”
“You’re not listening,” she says. “I’m already gone. Let go of me.”
“I can’t,” he tells her. “I can’t.”
She wrenches one hand free, and spins to face him.
“I recognize you,” she says. “You come to the café. Coffee, cream, sugar. Every night. Barely touch it. Why do you do that?”
She catches her bottom lip between her teeth. “But you never said anything.”
Quietly, “I should have told you you’re beautiful. I should have told you before you jumped.” A single hot tear streaks down his face, and he wipes it away furiously. He pleads, “Let me help you.”
As she gazes at him, her eyes soften. “It will be alright,” she promises. “Just let me go.”
She leans in, and presses her lips against his cheek. Her touch is warm; he exhales, and the sleeping city sighs.
Her eyes flutter closed, and her hands slip from his, and she falls away.
The strangest sensation, like shedding skin, like letting go. Like rising with the sun.
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