Reeves

He didn’t tell me that night. I want to be clear about that, because it would be easy to make the rest of this sound like he handed the whole story over the moment the train had passed and the arch had gone quiet again, and he didn’t. He erased the card himself, standing close enough that I could watch his hands do it, careful and thorough in a way that told me he’d done this exact task before and hated it every time. Then he told me to go home, and when I asked again, one more time, quietly, who Reeves was, he said, “Not tonight,” in a voice that had nothing left in it to argue with. I went home.

I didn’t sleep much. I lay in my flat listening to the boiler cycle on and off and turned the word Reeves over in my head the way…