Aaron rests his arms on the railing. Marsh has his legs threaded between the bars, his feet dangling over the edge. They are on one of the bridges that straddle the central canal, and neither of them has slept all night.
The canal stretches almost to the horizon. Office and entertainment towers are reflected in the still water, as well as a strip of pale sky, edged yellow by the approaching dawn.
"What time is it?" Marsh asks again. Aaron checks his watch.
"A little after five."
Marsh presses his face between the bars.
"It's crawling," he says. "Just crawling."
Aaron doesn't respond. The trains start running at six, but that's no help. They aren't supposed to meet the girls until 10:00, and home is in the opposite direction. The block of time in front of them is almost incomprehensible.
Aaron removes a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his jeans. There are only two left, and he has no money to buy more. With a great effort of will he returns them to his pocket.
"What was that bouncer's problem?" Marsh asks, picking up the thread of an abandoned conversation. "Like he never saw a drunk before."
"Power tripping," Aaron says. He has his head on his arms. His neck is stiff, and he is aware of an uncomfortable pressure mounting in his gut.
"We did it though," Marsh adds, a note of satisfaction in his voice. "It got done."
Aaron smiles through his fatigue. He claps Marsh on the back, rubbing his shoulder in ironic familiarity.
"It got done right," he says.
There is nothing further to add. They wait in silence. The sun isn't past the horizon, but the day's heat can already be felt. It's been like this for weeks now, with no rain or relief in sight.
By degrees, they grow aware of the soft puttering of a skiff, and watch as it emerges from under the bridge. The man at the tiller is old and, as if in defiance of the season, dressed in a massive sheepskin coat. Steam rises from the cooking pots at the bow of the skiff, and with it the smell of broth.
Catching sight of them on the bridge, the old man waves, and Aaron signals him to stop. Deftly, the old man maneuvers the skiff to the canal's right bank. Marsh extracts himself from the bars and he and Aaron make their way down to the water.
"Morning," says the skiff chef, already ladling the soup into two large bowls. "Long night then?"
"Still going," Marsh replies. "And can I get extra beef in mine?"
The old man nods, handing one bowl to Aaron, and then another, with a double portion of thinly sliced beef, to Marsh.
They drink their soup. The old man rolls a cigarette and lights it. Smoke trails gently in the air. They are all watching the sun rise.
