One of the first things I noticed about her is that she wasn’t wearing a coat.
On my way back to my apartment from a long stroll, I saw them walking towards me on the street. She; perhaps 20, ponytail, no coat and a very large silver purse. He; perhaps 25, black leather coat, oversized black pants.
As we approached one another, I could see she was crying. It wasn’t an injured cry, nor tears of frustration nor anger. She was sobbing with what sounded distinctly like desperation and despair. Her boyfriend (pimp? drug dealer?) held her hand with both of his; one hand on her wrist, the other on the tips of her fingers and yanked her along the sidewalk. She twisted her hand back and forth trying, it seemed, to wrest herself away from his grip.
I asked aloud to her, “Are you alright?”
She sobbed again and looked at her feet. He growled, “She’s fine.” and yanked her along. I turned to watch them continue and he led her into an alley.
The next time I saw her, a few minutes later, she was alone, walking quickly back the way she came, still whimpering a little bit, looking wild-eyed. As she walked by, I asked her, quietly this time, “Do you need help?”
“No. I don’t need the police. Not the police.”
She didn’t even slow down.
I watched her walk away and told the dispatch, who I already had on the line, that "She says she doesn’t want the police." They said they would send someone anyhow. I gave them a description.
As I walked home I saw them both one last time, driving away together in a little red car.
***
Later.
The programming brawler and I were seated at one of the best seats in the house – a small table for two, to right of the fireplace.
He; hunched over the table with his crazy professor hair, tweed jacket and a large mug of dark beer. Myself; stretched back in my chair, black suit, french twist and a martini.
I looked at him and asked; “How does one acquire Spine? Is it something one is born with…or is Spine developed or squashed over time.”
He looked thoughtful.***This is what I wish would happen next:
I’m driving down the road towards my apartment from work. I see her on the corner next to McDonalds, across from the motel. Her ears are pink and she still has no coat. I stop next to her, roll the passenger window down and lean towards her. I ask, “Did everything work out ok for you last week?”
She looks left and right before approaching my little car. She shakes her head no.
I ask, “Can I phone someone for you?”
She says, “Will you take me to State and Third? I can walk home from there, my mom is so worried.”
I nod, lean over further and unlock the door. I pull the latch and give it a push. She gets in. Diana Krall serenades us with a low
Besame Mucho. I hand her my leather gloves. With a little hesitation, she slowly pulls them on. We drive to State and Third in silence.
