Short story

The boards are terribly brittle. His breathing is heavy and his hands are clammy and cold; shut tight like a clam. There's no pearl in there. The sky is a rich, heavy dark blue, the kind of sky people drink wine under, and the image of a demure woman leaning her hip against a kitchen counter dances across his mind and then dissipates. The boards groan and sigh under his weight but he feels strangely sedated. To look up, however, would be obscene, an almost instant reveal, a head peeking from a slit in the curtain before a big show. So instead he looks down at the planks as he nimbly hops from one to the next across the abandoned building, partially exposed every few seconds by the large windows. He notices that the planks are all the same dull maroon colour, like dried blood that was ineffectually scrubbed out of a garment and left to become a permanent blemish. He feels like this colour. His legs are starting to hurt and the air cuts his lungs, but a small part of his brain tells him that everything he's feeling is deserved. He starts to sprint, and as his limbs carry him, he feels untouchable, suddenly he's not there anymore, he's not anywhere; her blood isn't cascading, a beautiful arch, a crescendo like Beethoven; the silver edge isn't sharp, it's glistening; his footprints are in the sand, he just needs to get to the other side -

He slips. It isn't a noble, merciful plunge, it's abrupt, and throws his body against itself as he claws at the plank and finally grips it with an awkward slap. His body now swings dilatorily, like a pendulum. He pauses to catch his breath, then like water sputtering through a spigot, he lets out an uncontrollable sob. It pours from him, emptying him, an hourglass turned over. It's a breathless shout that doesn't fill the space. It's unsatisfactory. What immediately follows is deathly silence. Somewhere a rat skitters across the cement and a horn honks apathetically.  He shakily heaves himself onto the plank, coughing from the dust and the dryness of his throat. He brushes the paint flecks off the hem of his jeans, a habitual act of vanity, and sits down, legs dangling like a child. Emptying the contents of his pockets, he pulls a stick of gum, a receipt, some lint, and exactly $1.35. He reads the tiny inscription at the bottom of the soft, crumpled receipt. Thank you, please come again. Usually this message is impersonal and passive, but tonight it speaks directly to him. Thank you. Thank you for what? He says it out loud. Thank you. It feels gentle, yet solid on his tongue - hard to swallow. It means nothing to him, but he smiles anyway. Please come again. I can't, he urges the words, as if they're physical. But they remain there nevertheless, printed on the receipt and branded under his eyelids. 

His mind wanders and lands on the faceless woman sipping wine from a clear glass. Her hip shifts slightly, almost provocatively, as she leans against the counter. She's laughing. But this time, he imagines the glass dropping on the floor, shattering but making no sound, the wine snaking across the tile floors. It looks like the colour of the planks before they faded. The dark sky drips on the floor, in her hair, it covers her, and the image is gone. 

He leaves the receipt, arranging the coins and the gum on top of it. All that remains are the words and the sound of runaway feet hitting decaying wood. 

Thank you, please come again.