Rats slithered into alleyway corners, claiming territory they'd held since before the first brick was laid. Sneakers pounded pavement in rhythm, left, right, left, right, the same route as yesterday, would be the same tomorrow. A delivery truck lurched left, the driver's eyelids heavy, his coffee long cold in the cup holder. Another truck swerved right, missing the sedan by inches. Horns blared. The cycle continued.
Ocean breeze swept through downtown carrying salt and possibility. Fresh bread exhaled from bakery vents, butter, yeast, something caramelized. Then the other smell, the one that lived in the cracks between buildings: motor oil mixed with something sharp, almost medicinal, like pine-sol sprayed over old wounds. The sun climbed higher. The city didn't notice. Yearn had been awake for hours.
She stretched, vertebrae popping one by one up her spine. The bed was a mess of limbs, an arm draped across her thigh, someone's leg tangled in the sheets, another body curled at the foot like a satisfied cat. Four of them. She counted to be sure. Four men, all breathing the heavy sleep of the thoroughly used.
She smiled. Not a sweet smile. A knowing one.
The sheets whispered as she extracted herself, careful not to wake anyone. Not yet. Her silk robe hung on the bedpost, and she slipped into it, the fabric cool against her warm skin. The kitchen called. The pink bong on the counter caught the early light, fluorescent and unapologetic. She packed it, lit it, and inhaled. Held. Released. The familiar burn in her lungs, the softening at her edges.
Water boiled on the stove. She spooned green mango tea leaves into her favorite mug, the chipped one with the faded gold rim. Steam rose, smelling like summer in a place she'd never been. She wrapped her hands around the ceramic and let the heat seep into her palms.
The living room waited with its tomato red walls that some interior designers would call "too much" and She called home. Her yoga mat unrolled with a soft thud. Downward dog. The stretch pulled at her hamstrings, her shoulders, the small of her back where someone's hands had pressed too hard last night. Child's pose. Her forehead touched the mat. She breathed. Cat-cow. Her spine rolled, undulated, and remembered it belonged to her.
7:07. The alarm erupted, Debussy's Clair De Lune flooding every room, spilling into the hallway, probably annoying her neighbors. She didn't reach for her phone to stop it. Let it play. Let them hear it. Let them know.
It was time for them to go.