The small explosive is cold and heavy on his palm. He thinks of dying stars, of
crushed atoms, pinpricks of matter weighing more than whole mountains.
The parking garage is empty and the hum of the generators bounce off the damp walls.
Outside, the air is still and cool. In a bar he swallows scotch and pushes a button.
Glass, brick and metal expand and fly apart, ripping a hole in the sky.
The window is open and a gust of hot air pushes the fading wails of sirens into the
room. He kicks at the sheets, grabs a pillow and spins it hard out into the darkness.
It's twenty-five degrees Celsius and two in the morning and it's nights like these
when he can imagine the city burning down around him.
He climbs out of bed and moves to the window. Staring across the street he pictures
blown-out windows, glass sprayed over the sidewalk and scorched curtains fluttering
against blackened bricks.
To be continued...