Thank you, Jade! :-) 333333333333333333 times a million to Kit.
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A balding, heavy man in a business suit jostles me as I sling my backpack over my shoulder, nearly shoving me out into the busy street. He gives me a nasty glare as he descends into the subway station nearby, adjusting his pudgy, sweaty grip on his suitcase handle.
With a slight shrug I continue on towards 53rd and 8th. The air is cold and clean today, clouds covering the pale sun in a gray haze. Smooth white snowdrifts sit by the side of the road, while people squelch through trails of muddy slush on the sidewalk.
A grizzled, toothless old man sits in the shelter of a bustling coffee shop, his frayed jeans wearing at the seams and his ragged brown jacket huddled around his thin shoulders. I enter the coffee shop, elbow through the crowd, and lean over the counter to buy a coffee and blueberry muffin before retreating to the street again.
The man wakes up with a startled grunt; his thin, trembling lips stretch tightly across his teeth in a wavering smile as I set down the coffee cup and brown paper bag beside him. "Thank you, Kate," he rasps out in his hoarse, grating voice, "I haven't seen you at the shelter for such a long while... where have you been?"
"I found a new place to stay," I explain, stuffing my hands in my pockets and surfacing with a five-dollar bill. "I still help out at the shelter, though... Here, take it."
"You still draw?" He puffs out a huffing laugh, his chest heaving and wheezing with the effort. I used to see him at the shelter all the time; he once owned a dog, a lean bony greyhound with a tail like a whip, before it died of old age last fall. "Tell me, where can I see this masterpiece?"
"Head down the street to the nearest intersection, hang a right, and head straight for a block," I answer, "if all this slush and mud hasn't wrecked it yet."
We chat for a while longer before I head onwards, hopping backwards as I wave to him before passing by a girl gabbling on her cell phone. The streets get even more crowded, cars jamming the roads with honks and beeps as sirens wail piercingly in the distance.
I stop at a cluttered music store, dimly lit inside and full of peeling paint and shredded posters. A tall, skinny guy with prickly tufts of hair is sorting through CDs, a woven bracelet threaded around his thin wrist.
"Raoul, how's business?" I greet him.
"Going good," he mumbles down at the CDs, fishing out one and flipping it over, inspecting the cover. "I got a couple of jobs, I'm making some money... things are looking up." He holds out the box. "Want to buy something?"
"Nah, I'm headed home." I hoist the backpack higher on my shoulders, looking him closely in the eye. "Are you all right?"
He doesn't meet my gaze, turning away instead. I catch a flash of fear and guilt in his eyes before he bends his head lower, looking through the CD cases again, and bite my lip. Raoul showed up at the shelter about a year ago, high on heroin and holding a rusty switchblade in one hand. Since then he's tried to stay off the drugs, but it's hard to keep clean. Heroin is his only escape from the streets, from the cold and hunger and filth and despair, and he keeps going back, no matter how hard he tries or how hopeful he stays.
"Listen, I'm still working at the shelter," I tell him now. "Maybe we can talk sometime."
Raoul gives me a half-hearted smile, his hands stilling for an instant. "Yeah, sometime soon. See you around." He gathers up the box and heads into the store, disappearing into the crowded darkness.
I mull over Raoul as I turn the corner and head towards the apartment building on 53rd and 8th. One of the flashily dressed hookers milling about the street smirks at me, flipping back her hair; I ignore her and go inside, where it's cool and spacious and empty. The sounds of my footsteps clatter hollowly in the stairwell as I climb up to the first floor and emerge into the hallway.
The apartment is quiet when I enter; I hear the sound of water running in the kitchen. "Kate?" David's muffled voice calls as I approach.
I duck into the living room, flinging my shoes to one side, and see David sitting on the couch, taping a white gauze bandage to his cheek with a grimace of pain. "What happened to you?" I rush over to his side.
"Someone with extremely bad aim shot at me as I was coming home." He lifts the cloth to reveal a bleeding gash gaping across his face. "It only grazed, it's nothing serious."
I know it grazed, I've been treating bullet wounds for a good two or three years. I also know that if the bullet had gone a millimeter to the right, David's jaw would have been cracked. "Who was it?" I demand shakily, taking the tape roll from his hands and fixing up the crooked bandage.
He closes his eyes, thinking. "Looked like a homeless man. Tall, thin, dark eyes, black hair that stuck out like crazy--"
"A thread bracelet around his right arm?" I interrupt, something cold trickling down my spine.
David gives me a startled look. "You know him?"
A queasy, nauseous feeling settles in my stomach, bile rising in my throat. "His name's Raoul, he used to be at the shelter where I work. He works a couple of blocks over and--and he's addicted to heroin, but I didn't think-- it can't be, he wouldn't kill anybody--and why would he kill you?"
"I expect a lot of people would like me dead," David replies grimly. "And Raoul sounds like the perfect man for the job--homeless, a heroin addict-- who'd believe a word in his defense?"
"You're just being paranoid." I finish dressing the wound, smoothing the white gauze over his stained cheek.
David smiles with an effort. "I hope so." He touches the bandage lightly and gives me a melting puppy-dog look. "Won't you kiss it better?"
I laugh, wind my fingers through his hair, kissing him gently just above the bandage, and lean my forehead against his, knowing with absolute certainty that I'll be losing sleep tonight.
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A balding, heavy man in a business suit jostles me as I sling my backpack over my shoulder, nearly shoving me out into the busy street. He gives me a nasty glare as he descends into the subway station nearby, adjusting his pudgy, sweaty grip on his suitcase handle.
With a slight shrug I continue on towards 53rd and 8th. The air is cold and clean today, clouds covering the pale sun in a gray haze. Smooth white snowdrifts sit by the side of the road, while people squelch through trails of muddy slush on the sidewalk.
A grizzled, toothless old man sits in the shelter of a bustling coffee shop, his frayed jeans wearing at the seams and his ragged brown jacket huddled around his thin shoulders. I enter the coffee shop, elbow through the crowd, and lean over the counter to buy a coffee and blueberry muffin before retreating to the street again.
The man wakes up with a startled grunt; his thin, trembling lips stretch tightly across his teeth in a wavering smile as I set down the coffee cup and brown paper bag beside him. "Thank you, Kate," he rasps out in his hoarse, grating voice, "I haven't seen you at the shelter for such a long while... where have you been?"
"I found a new place to stay," I explain, stuffing my hands in my pockets and surfacing with a five-dollar bill. "I still help out at the shelter, though... Here, take it."
"You still draw?" He puffs out a huffing laugh, his chest heaving and wheezing with the effort. I used to see him at the shelter all the time; he once owned a dog, a lean bony greyhound with a tail like a whip, before it died of old age last fall. "Tell me, where can I see this masterpiece?"
"Head down the street to the nearest intersection, hang a right, and head straight for a block," I answer, "if all this slush and mud hasn't wrecked it yet."
We chat for a while longer before I head onwards, hopping backwards as I wave to him before passing by a girl gabbling on her cell phone. The streets get even more crowded, cars jamming the roads with honks and beeps as sirens wail piercingly in the distance.
I stop at a cluttered music store, dimly lit inside and full of peeling paint and shredded posters. A tall, skinny guy with prickly tufts of hair is sorting through CDs, a woven bracelet threaded around his thin wrist.
"Raoul, how's business?" I greet him.
"Going good," he mumbles down at the CDs, fishing out one and flipping it over, inspecting the cover. "I got a couple of jobs, I'm making some money... things are looking up." He holds out the box. "Want to buy something?"
"Nah, I'm headed home." I hoist the backpack higher on my shoulders, looking him closely in the eye. "Are you all right?"
He doesn't meet my gaze, turning away instead. I catch a flash of fear and guilt in his eyes before he bends his head lower, looking through the CD cases again, and bite my lip. Raoul showed up at the shelter about a year ago, high on heroin and holding a rusty switchblade in one hand. Since then he's tried to stay off the drugs, but it's hard to keep clean. Heroin is his only escape from the streets, from the cold and hunger and filth and despair, and he keeps going back, no matter how hard he tries or how hopeful he stays.
"Listen, I'm still working at the shelter," I tell him now. "Maybe we can talk sometime."
Raoul gives me a half-hearted smile, his hands stilling for an instant. "Yeah, sometime soon. See you around." He gathers up the box and heads into the store, disappearing into the crowded darkness.
I mull over Raoul as I turn the corner and head towards the apartment building on 53rd and 8th. One of the flashily dressed hookers milling about the street smirks at me, flipping back her hair; I ignore her and go inside, where it's cool and spacious and empty. The sounds of my footsteps clatter hollowly in the stairwell as I climb up to the first floor and emerge into the hallway.
The apartment is quiet when I enter; I hear the sound of water running in the kitchen. "Kate?" David's muffled voice calls as I approach.
I duck into the living room, flinging my shoes to one side, and see David sitting on the couch, taping a white gauze bandage to his cheek with a grimace of pain. "What happened to you?" I rush over to his side.
"Someone with extremely bad aim shot at me as I was coming home." He lifts the cloth to reveal a bleeding gash gaping across his face. "It only grazed, it's nothing serious."
I know it grazed, I've been treating bullet wounds for a good two or three years. I also know that if the bullet had gone a millimeter to the right, David's jaw would have been cracked. "Who was it?" I demand shakily, taking the tape roll from his hands and fixing up the crooked bandage.
He closes his eyes, thinking. "Looked like a homeless man. Tall, thin, dark eyes, black hair that stuck out like crazy--"
"A thread bracelet around his right arm?" I interrupt, something cold trickling down my spine.
David gives me a startled look. "You know him?"
A queasy, nauseous feeling settles in my stomach, bile rising in my throat. "His name's Raoul, he used to be at the shelter where I work. He works a couple of blocks over and--and he's addicted to heroin, but I didn't think-- it can't be, he wouldn't kill anybody--and why would he kill you?"
"I expect a lot of people would like me dead," David replies grimly. "And Raoul sounds like the perfect man for the job--homeless, a heroin addict-- who'd believe a word in his defense?"
"You're just being paranoid." I finish dressing the wound, smoothing the white gauze over his stained cheek.
David smiles with an effort. "I hope so." He touches the bandage lightly and gives me a melting puppy-dog look. "Won't you kiss it better?"
I laugh, wind my fingers through his hair, kissing him gently just above the bandage, and lean my forehead against his, knowing with absolute certainty that I'll be losing sleep tonight.
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