Listening to Traffic
Setting: before "Dexter"

"Hey, I mean it, thanks for your call. You don't know how nice it is to hear a friendly voice on the phone."

"Hey," I stop and dig around for my keys, cradling the phone with my shoulder, "listen to me, things will get better. And if you need anything, or if you ever just need to talk, you can always call me." I finally locate the keys half inside a pack of Morleys. As I pull them out and insert one of them into my door, a thought occurs to me. "Or, hey, call my brother. I think he really likes you. He talks about you a lot." As much as my brother talks about anything, anyway.

"He does?" My door pops open. I follow it inside, hit the light switch. "What does he say?"

I drop my purse on the nearby side table and my gym bag on the floor, switch my phone back into my hand, push the door shut. As I do I think back on everything my brother's either volunteered or I've extracted from him, try to come up with something. "Only good things. He says you're… kind." It was strange hearing that word come out of my brother's mouth. "And he really likes your kids."

There's a pause. "I'm glad to hear you say that," she says finally. "They really like him too. And so do I." She exhales into the phone. I flip my deadbolt, then stand still beside my door, waiting for her to continue. "Truthfully, sometimes I'm not sure how he feels. He was supposed to come over for dinner tonight, but he had to work late again…"

I snort. I know exactly what she's talking about. "Yeah, he does that."

"To you too?"

"All the time, since we were teenagers." I walk over to my couch and flop back onto the cushions, toss my purse on the coffee table. "You'd think he was fucking Batman for how often he finds an excuse to be out late."

"Oh." She sounds relieved. "Why?"

I shrug. "I gave up trying to get a straight answer from him a long time ago. I think he just likes the alone time. Dexter's an enigma wrapped around an introvert." When she doesn't reply immediately, I keep going, "Just do him a favor— don't let up on him. He can be about as dense as a block of fucking Dublin cheddar cheese, but he's a good guy."

"I won't." She always sounds so earnest.

"Good." I smile slightly. "I'll call you later. Say hi to Dex if he does decide to show up."

"I will. And thanks, for what you said."

"Really, don't worry about it. Have a nice night, Rita."

"You too."

I snap the phone closed, then set it on a nearby pillow. Puff out a breath. For a second I don't move, just lie back and breathe. Sweat. It's really fucking hot and stuffy in here.

Eventually it drives me up. I head to the fridge and grab a water bottle, then go over to the wall panel and crank up the AC, turn on the ceiling fan. As the fan picks up speed, the relief is almost immediate. I walk back over to my couch and plop down, gulp some water, fluff my hair. It's still damp from my shower at the gym. Think.

Rita Bennett.

That was a seriously fucked-up night. Fucked-up week, actually.

I took myself off hookers— temporarily —after some asshole attacked me around the corner of a bodega I'd been working for Vice. I'd seen this guy leering around a few times, but somehow I didn't notice him until the precise moment he managed to grab me from behind, wrench me around, and slam me against that dirty, plaster wall. In a second his hand was crushing my throat, as the other made its way down my translucent shirt. Sometimes I still think about that second of blind fucking terror, how everything I knew about... everything suddenly disintegrated, and how every cell in my body seemed to key into the knowledge of what was happening to me. His yellow teeth and gross fucking breath. The rough scratch of his facial hair along my neck. The wet sound of his tongue against his teeth, as his sweaty hands made their way under fabric, groped for skin, my skin. My heart hammering in my ears as he crushed the breath from me. He was shirtless and sweaty and riding an opiate train to Jupiter, rambling something I didn't understand in Spanish, and my gun was tucked in the small of my back, and I could feel it there as he pressed me against the wall, totally useless.
And then somehow I got a hold of myself, as I spotted something shiny attached to both of his nipples. My fingers slid off his arm, sought the loop, curled around it, and ripped it toward me with every ounce of my adrenaline-fueled strength. Instantly, he let me go as he fell to his knees, holding his chest and howling like a bitch as blood poured out between his fingers. I fell back too, against the wall, but I recovered much faster than he did, gave him a sharp kick to his side. He dropped like a stone.

At that moment, as I was standing there considering delivering a shot or three to his nuts, my backup, whose asses had been planted in the van across the block, finally got there. They rolled him over, cuffed him, called for an ambulance and took him away to wait for it. I was also whisked away to the hospital, by my supervising sergeant, where I was photographed and given some preventative shots, just in case the guy had hepatitis or something. Then, sitting there in a loaner shirt in a private exam room, I gave a statement. I didn't get home until four or five in the morning.

It was only later I found out that they never actually found his nipple. I like to think a rat carried it, earring still attached, off to its nest to eat.

Four days of paid leave and a critical incident debrief later, I asked for a temporary transfer back to patrol. I'm still not sure why. Maybe it was just that I didn't want to go back out as Brandi, to have to see myself in that hooker suit with bruises ringing my collar. Didn't want everyone else to see me that way either. And I missed how it felt to be in full uniform, to open carry and drive a marked unit. I missed how it made me feel.

But, my third night out, I responded to a possible DV call.

When I walked up to the stoop, the door was half open, and through it I could see that the house was a mess: tables and chairs tipped over, broken glass, broken dishware, broken lamps. Streaks of blood. And then I heard screaming. Crying. It took me half a second to realize I was hearing kids.

I radioed for backup, but I couldn't stand there waiting for them to get there, so I drew my gun, followed the noises to the bedroom. Just inside, I found a big, tall guy with his back to me, high as a kite and raging word salad. I don't remember what he was saying. I instantly zeroed in on the bat in his hands. Rita was trapped in the corner of the room, standing between him and her two kids, split lip, fucked-up eye, fucked-up jaw, fucked-up shirt. When she spotted me behind her husband's back, the look that flashed across her face crushed my heart to the bottom of my shoes. I don't ever want to see that kind of desperation on another person's face. Not ever.

In that moment, I didn't know what to do. I thought about shooting him, thought about tazing him. I wasn't sure if he would take a swing at me, if I should even take that risk. I thought about that guy in the alley, his nipple tearing off in my hand. Looked at the kids, at Rita, knew they'd have to live with the consequences of whatever I did. And then I stepped back, clicked off the safety on my gun, told him to fucking freeze.

At first he didn't do anything, but after a beat he turned to look at me, and we made eye contact. He was still holding the bat. I raised the muzzle of my gun to center on his torso, cocked it, told him to drop the fucking thing and kick it away. That seemed to penetrate his druggy haze, but it was a few, excruciatingly-long seconds before he finally tossed the bat. As it rolled away, I told him to turn around and lie flat on the floor. Rage was etched all over his eyes, his jaw, the veins throbbing in his neck, but he obeyed. Slowly. I didn't move to cuff him until I heard sirens approaching outside. I didn't trust that he'd lie there placidly.

By the end of the week I was back working Vice. I don't want to be here, but I want to be there even less. When I was in uniform I saw a lot of women like Rita, a lot of fucked-up, strung-out guys like Paul, but that night felt different. After it was over, Rita told me in the back of the ambulance that Paul would've killed her, that I'd saved her life, and the certainty with which she said that shook me to the core. I kept asking myself what would've happened if I'd gotten there ten minutes later, or if I'd decided to stand around on that stoop waiting for backup.

Maybe that's why I keep in touch with her, why I eventually steered her toward my brother. I can never be the kind of friend she needs— I'm just not nice enough —but maybe Dexter can help her, make her feel less sad, less alone. My brother has his shit, but at the end of the day he's always been there for me, and I think he can be there for her too. Maybe it'll even help him develop a bit more. Emotionally, anyway.

I finish off the rest of the water, set it on the table, wander out onto the balcony. The air is slightly less heavy out here. There's a breeze coming from the east, between the buildings. For a second I listen to traffic, just breathing, still feeling tired from the gym.

I don't like the quiet, the stillness, coming home to an empty apartment. A couple days ago I broke up with this guy I was seeing, and even though we'd been together for barely five minutes, and even though he was awful in bed and had no personality and always smelled sort of like cheese, for some reason right now I kind of miss him, wish he was here to distract me.

I head back inside, reach for my phone on impulse. I speed dial the first person I think of: Dexter. He blew off Rita but maybe I can convince him to grab a beer with me.

But it rings and rings and rings. Dumps to voicemail.

For half a second I contemplate leaving a message. I open my mouth to do it, but blow out my breath before the beep. "Fuck it," I mutter, clapping the thing closed again.

As I get up to grab a beer, I find the remote and flip the TV on. It's been two weeks since that prostitute was chopped into pieces and left on display in that lot. News on the case has slowed to nothing, from both the newscasters and the police grapevine. Interest has moved on. The reality is no one ever really gave a shit about the dead girl, just the freaky way she was displayed. And since we're apparently just treading water, there's nothing left to sensationalize.

I skim the channels for her anyway.

Seconds tick by. (nothing nothing nothing nothing anything but that no no nope fuck no)

I stop on a sports channel. College football. It keeps my attention for about 23 seconds before my thoughts start to wander away again, to Rita, the motel I've been working for Vice, the dead prostitute, whether or not I'll ever make it onto Homicide, if I should up my weight the next time I do lat pulldowns at the gym. I lie back on my couch, grab a pillow and adjust it under my head. Rubbing my neck, I look from the ceiling fan back over to the TV, close my eyes as my thoughts start to fracture and slide apart. Gradually, they stop making sense altogether, stop mattering.

I drift away.