No. 3
In 1972, I'm late to work, and a strong gust of wind is blowing hard past me. My hair flies in my face and I wince, my eyes stinging as cigarette smoke wafts over from an alley. The sidewalk is crowded with men and women walking to work. I hear the wail of children, the tinkling rustle of noise as a scrap of metal slides across the pavement, the soft muttering of voices from someone walking by me.
My frozen fingertips clamp down on the manila folder as a gale pushes by, but as someone's shoulder bangs up against mine, a small packet of papers slide out from in between the cream folder.
"Crap!" I quickly turn around, chasing the flashing white rectangle as it flies in the air into the passersby. The paper disappears beneath the browns and greys and blacks of people rushing by, already too far away, and my shoulders slump. I move towards the side of the street, leaning against a brick wall and shoving my bag under my arm. The folder falls open in my arms and I leaf through the numerous dissertations and research notes I'd compiled, trying to discern what I'd lost.
It's then that I notice someone's standing in front of me; rather, the smell hits me first – sweat, unshowered skin, and a cloying cologne. My eyes catch onto frizzled ginger hair and dark smatters of freckles on high cheekbones, an unshaven jaw. Startlingly blue eyes.
A man is standing in front of me, dressed in shabby, worn clothes. In his hand is the packet – a little crumpled, the sheets catching a little on the fraying edges of his torn gloves. In his other hand he's holding a sign, which he now carefully swings towards the ground, resting it on the chipped concrete.
THE END IS NIGH.
I swallow, looking back up at him. For a moment, he makes no move to hand the paper to me, but my mouth drops open as he suddenly jerks his hand forward, shoving the packet in my face. His voice is raspy and vaguely familiar.
"Dropped this."
"Oh, I, um…Thank you." I gingerly take the papers and slide them haphazardly into the folder.
His voice is gruff, maybe amused. "Should be more careful next time."
"Do I…Do I know you?" To my shock, something guarded drops over his face. The wind ruffles his orange hair.
"Don't think so." Suddenly, he's gone, twisting through the crowds.
"Wait!" But I already know it's too late, and I resign myself to knowing that I'll see him around somewhere.
At midnight, Rorschach and Dan join Adrian and I in the Lower East side.
Two weeks later, I'm standing in line at some obscure bakery before work. I order an onion bagel, hot from the oven, and then, ruefully, a maple bar. The oily heat and sweet smell from the baked goods make my stomach growl, and I hurry out of the shop into the cold morning, the yellow bag in my hand.
I nearly walk into him at first, but quickly stop short. He looks a little less tired, but his gloves are gone and his fingers are turning pink in the air.
"I, um, never got to thank you for getting that packet the other day." He looks at me intensely, and I flush, bowing my head a little. The fuzzy edge of my scarf tickles the skin under my jaw. "I mean, uh, if you hadn't caught it, I'd've gotten into trouble with my boss."
When he still says nothing, I grab the bag and hand it to him. "For you."
A scowl crosses his face, thin lips twisting into a sneer as he glares at me. "Don't want handouts."
"I know. Please. Just, I have to thank you somehow. A-and there's enough…unfairness happening around here."
Half a minute passes, then he takes the bag from me.
"You're welcome," I say nervously. Another tense, awkward silence. "Um, I should…I should get going." I nod at him before I turn and leave for 116th street and Broadway.
In the afternoon I see him again from across the street. The jagged wooden sign is slung over his shoulder and he looks as tired and scruffy as ever, but his gait is steady and purposeful. He's still holding the bright yellow paper bag, and I smile awkwardly as I raise my hand. He looks at me, and even though he does nothing I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch.
"Thank you," Rorschach says to me at one in the morning. My hands are sore, my cheeks frozen and my nose cold as another light breeze passes by. I look down at him. His fingers deftly tie the last knot around the mugger's wrists. My brow furrows.
"For what?"
He doesn't say any more, but I realize the slow shifting of ink on his face is enough for words tonight.
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