I don't own Snitch (if only….) or the lodging house (if only….). I think that's about it.
The high wail of a baby lingers in the air above the street, and enters the dreams of many. It floats through the open window of a darkened building, into a dim room filled with sleeping forms.
In the dream of one, the cry is of a small, pale infant, clutched in his arms. As he watches, it grows into a child, then a young girl, then a girl somewhere between child- and woman hood. Her dress is short, and a small pink rose is tucked into her red-brown hair. She smiles, a smile with laughter being it, and reaches out a hand to the boy.
Suddenly, she disappears, and is replaced by the baby, now silent and still.
The boy awakens.
I don't think about her much anymore. I don't even see her much, like I used to. The image is gone, faded from this different life. All I keep seeing is that tiny rose, tucked into Tiffy's hair. A kind of memoriam. I wouldn't have expected it of her. But then, I never really knew her.
I was walking with Snitch the other day, to one of those paces. I never go there myself, but he does, more than I'd like. But it's not my business.
Those places make me uncomfortable; I usually just drop Snitch there and head back. This time, though, he didn't have quite enough money, so he asked me to stick around in case he couldn't bargain his way through.
I lingered near the door, wishing he'd hurry up. A few of them were sitting on couches nearby, casting me glances and chatting to each other. By the time Snitch had been refused, I'd learned everything.
