Every morning I roll over and pull aside the curtain next to my head. I look out over downtown Brooklyn, face right next to the window sill.

After work a couple of nights ago I was talking on the phone with my brother, walked into my room to pull the curtain closed and, right before I do, I spot a half-smoked cigarette on the sill.

It doesn't smell like smoke in the room and it looks old and dry, but it definitely wasn't there that morning, and hasn't been there for the past year-and-a-half.

Most likely fell from higher up on the window, from when Audrey used to stand on the bed and smoke out the top half, but I would love to believe it crossed over from a tangent universe; the airplane engine that killed Donnie Darko. I'm waiting to see who's going to be Frank.