Spindling

(Artwork by Sarah Tell)

Harvey and Leslie went up to the roof. It was a hot, windy day, and they thought it would be nice to be up there by themselves, lie back in lawn chairs, drink chilled champagne from a water bottle, and read.

The stairs were heavy with a musty attic aroma. Harvey carried his lawn chair in a large duffel bag over his shoulder as he made his way up. He saw the place where a door should be at the top of the stairs. There wasn’t a door there. There was just a blast of rectangular sunlight from the door frame, which blinded him when he saw it. He thought about UV rays and that warped, nauseated, cheated feeling he used to get at the beach when he’d lie out in the sun too long.

Leslie closed the bottom door that led to the stairs from the building‘s 3rd floor units.

“Don’t latch it,” Harvey called back. “Let’s not accidentally get locked up here.” He grumbled, more to himself than to her.

“I won’t,” Leslie said back. She fixed the lock so it wouldn’t close over the clasp. It made a dinging sound that reminded her of tin be crinkled under a printing press. “I’m coming,” She said. She said, “It’s so dark down here,” as she stepped up the concrete stairs into the attic room’s dust and mold.

“It’s lighter up here,” he said. “Come on up.” He was standing on the edge of the door-less doorframe with the sun behind him, lighting up all…