Fiction
After Dark
By Annie Grimes
Sunni didn’t have five dollars, and apparently, that was how much it cost to walk your dog outside of your apartment on a Saturday night. The man wore a red beanie over his ears, and a baggy black hoodie hung limply atop his skeletal frame. The wheels on his bicycle squeaked each time they stopped and started. “A hot dog down at the gas station costs five dollars,” he said. The Shih Tzu pawed at Sunni’s calves, then stalked away and pissed on the side of a tree. “I left my wallet inside. Sorry,” she said. She smiled but tried not to be too friendly about it. The sun was starting to set earlier these days, though she still got off work at the same time. “You live here?” he asked. Sunni looked around at the apartments. The buildings were packed in tight rows, alternating between dark- and light-red bricks to disguise their uniformity. Most of the concrete staircases to the upper stories were cracked, and green paint was peeling off the corners of all the doors. Some lights were on over the balconies, and nearly every parking spot contained a car, but no one was outside. The air was deadly silent. “My boyfriend does,” she said. The man nodded, messing with the rubber on his handlebars. “I like your pants.” He pointed at her pajamas. They were fleece and printed with yellow rubber duckies. She got them for Christmas when she was eleven, and they were high-waters on her now twenty-year-old legs. “Thanks,” she said, tugging them down. The Shih Tzu swiped his feet against the dirt like a tiny bull and trotted down the sidewalk. Sunni curled her toes into her slippers and jogged after him. The man mounted his bicycle and 10
