Exit Only
Some days are better than others, and it's the kind of job where the better days make you feel invincible, and the bad ones have you sleeping with one eye open. Some days you enjoy the solitude and watching the crowds below through grime-tinted glass, marking the hours in spent matchsticks and crumbled sliver foil and others you're scratching for the door, not caring if you're really just still in bed and clawing at your partner's back. Not that he feels it through the scar tissue anyway. You were waiting for the 'Exit Only' sign to appear somewhere; any chance to escape. You think about slipping through that alley when you're walking back together, or jumping out of the car as soon as it's stopped, and sometimes when it's not. You think about sneaking out in the middle of the night when he's wracked with fever, dying in your arms. But then he gets better, the wounds that let the fever in turn to scars and he looks at you and his eyes tell you that you are all he has. From that point on you know there's only one exit, and it's The Exit, and that's okay.