Page 118 of Antihero

Back to the bedroom, grown chilly with the night breeze. He tied the rope to one of the steel cables anchoring his bed. The other end he wrapped around his arm. He got a yoga block from the back of the closet and set it on the windowsill. Hopping up, he balanced on the block, using the rope to hold steady, and leaned all the way out and around the angled pane.

Now he could reach the bird shit. Straining, he swiped with the moist paper towel, then flipped it to clear the smudge marks with the dry side because no one needed water stains.

The yoga block buckled and almost popped free but he tensed his ankle and the arch of his foot and brought it back to solidity. The thrice-wrapped fastrope cut into his forearm, holding tight. It was bracingly cold up here in the wind current given his damp hair and boxer briefs. As he swung himself back inside, he spotted an elderly lady in an apartment window across Wilshire staring at him, her mouth slightly ajar.

He pivoted back into the bedroom, jumped down, and cranked the window shut once more. The woman was still staring at him, holding the collar of her housecoat tight at her throat. How ridiculous he must have looked half naked and flapping in the breeze.

He waved.

She did not wave back.

The pane was now clear.

He lowered the innocuous-looking periwinkle sunscreen that was in fact woven of a titanium composite sufficient to halt a sniper round. He didn’t want the sullied paper towel dirtying his trash can, so he tore it up into small sections and flushed them. Then he washed his hands in water hot enough to turn his skin red, using three applications of soap to scour off any residual guano.

Back to bed.

He found his Zen seated posture once more.

Now for the hard part.

His eyes picked around the room for other imperfections to set right. Realizing he was seeking distraction, he tightened the vise on his OCD, picked up the RoamZone.

Her latest text peered out at him: what’d i do wrong?

He dialed.

“X?” She sounded nervous.

He cleared his throat. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He kept his back straight, his breathing steady.

“Feels like I did.”

“You didn’t.”

“Then what went down?”

“Let’s talk in person. After the mission.”

“Why not now?”

“Finding these fucking guys, Joey? And getting them off the street? It’s all that matters.”

“Fine.”

Silence.

Then: “I hate when you’re disappointed in me.”

So bare. So simple. So pure. He had to remind himself to breathe.

“It’s okay,” she said quickly. “We don’t have to talk about it now.”

Good, he almost said.

“Oh, X?”