Wes West ’18
Riverwalk Luke slept on the top floor in an eight-by-twelve room. The wall with two windows overlooking the alley bulged unevenly outwards. He would forget to close the blinds most evenings and in the summer the sun would wake him early; he would pace back and forth in stockinged feet, heavy with the knowledge of the sleeping people on the floors below him. Roman knocked. —Come in! The sunbeams disturbed dust particles where they struck the carpet. A church nearby had just sounded six o’ clock. Luke’s watch agreed with the bells. —Am I waking you up? —No. Roman stood in the doorway, framed like a ridiculous silent movie star. His hair wasn’t neat enough for it, though, and he wore T-shirts in the summer. —Did you sleep in your clothes? —I slept in pajamas, Roman said. Just didn’t want to find a new shirt. Luke nodded, and unfolded himself from where he sat, cross-legged, on the bed. Most days Roman did not come up here, for he slept in the room directly below this one and was not woken up by sunlight on his face, but today was different because Luke had asked. They were to go out, and the walk was long from here. —I dressed a while ago, he said. I woke up at sunrise again. Roman made a sympathetic noise, the two of them now standing half in the doorway and half in the hall-landing. Luke winced as the floor creaked under his feet, a half-born apology dying in his mouth as Roman put a hand on his shoulder. —Do you ever sleep in when you’re here? Roman worried more than he should. —Sometimes, Luke said. If I remember to close the blinds.
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