The door squeaked open. Kurt stepped out onto the tenement roof and propped the door open with an old metal chair he’d saved from a skip. He felt in the brick planter – no plants, just bricks – and fished out his tobacco wallet.
The cigarette paper slipped easily through his practiced fingers, flakes of tobacco tamed into a tube. The lighter flared, clicked shut.
The lead roof was still hot, petrol fumes dissipating a little as day gave way to night.
Laney’s voice reached him up the stairwell. ‘Kurt! Dinner.’
Downstairs the baby was giggling, hiccuping, giggling.
Not a bad life.
Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers. See the picture and write along. See here to join in the fun.