Nobody's supposed to be up here. The door at the end of the hall says 'Authorized Personnel Only,' but I've been a mail carrier for sixty-three years. I know which locks stick.
I brought my dented thermos. The dent is from 1974, when I dropped it on a curb in Reno. Coffee still tastes the same.
From up here, the neon of the casino signs turns the whole valley pink. The slot machines are a low hum you can almost forget.
I watched the last bus of the night crawl down Fremont Street. Headlights yellow, stopping at every corner even when nobody's there.
The driver knows me. He's the only one who still takes the 11:40 route. He looked up and waved. I waved back with the thermos.
Some days, that's the whole reason. A dented thing, a forbidden view, a hand from a moving bus.
Downstairs, my brother-in-law will be asleep in the other bedroom. The duplex is quiet. But out here, for ten minutes, the city is mine.