Leaning my shoulder against the cold tile wall, I watch James trundle down the steps after a long night of work. His bag drips something dark. The work and the night both hang heavy on his shoulders; nearly as heavy as the succubus riding there as well. He is much more wrinkled than the last time I watched him. The early morning light plays muted off his face like yesterday’s discarded newspaper, crumpled and worn.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway, as I quietly slide out of the shadows. There’s no place for guilt in this little war, and this specific move needs to happen before morning rush hour hits. Neither of us wants that kind of an audience. I adjust my own bag, my own succubus, as James looks up and pauses.
“Hello old friend.”
He hunches defensively and snarls, “We were never friends.”
“Well,” I shrug, unlatching my bag slowly. “At least I got the old part right.”