Nine Lives

Blank’s laces dangled brazenly over the ledge. The scuffed toes of his sneakers flirted fearlessly with the city air, much unlike their owner. Granted it was 15 degrees colder than he’d expected, and raining, and he could easily blame his tremours on the morning chill. Although, from where he was teetering, no one could really tell the difference.

Christ, he should have brought a thicker jacket.

Skyscrapers below, a Technicolor medley of umbrellas polka-dotted the sidewalks. The undeniable clatter of briefcases and screeching of yellow beatle taxis on puddled gravel floated up to him. Offices had just adjourned.

He’d left early, ducking out mid-meeting, mumbling something about the loo and his cat and a family emergency. The straight-grey suit still drooped over his narrow shoulders. Shirley Hudson, his nametag read. Shirley.

With a name like that, his fate was sealed from the get-go.