When she woke up the sun hit right above her eyebrows. She felt it reach farther down to her lips and to her stomach.
“I awake!” she could hear the tiny voice next door—their pattern insync with their own. Just like, as she said goodnight to her roommate, his hair heavy above his eyes, she could hear the baby next door—reaching for a final yawn of the night.
The sounds of the apartment building moved along to the rhythm of cries, coffee makers, steps from room to room, and phone calls moving through.
This morning there was no sound at all coming from upstairs. Usually there was a thump, a thump as George dropped a book and then picked it up again. The repetition was morning to Reva.
“Come up and read sometime,” he had said to her, her first week living there.
When she walked up the steps, dustballs moved to the side, Luigi the landlord often forgetting a few steps here and there. Reva knocked quickly on the door. Reva did most things quickly— she fit nicely with the New York rhythm.
“One second,” he said, his voice soft in the room—as if moving slowly through the plush carpet and staying comfortably with the piles of books around the apartment. His footsteps met the carpet and left a slight sound on the door.
When he opened the door—he smiled wide—his eyes moved to the book in her hand. His dark eyebrows moved up with surprise—creasing around the edges moved into place—“come in!” he said slightly leaning over his cane. The house was bright, light coming straight into the living room from the window.
Lights in the Hand 