.

in the alley there was a man in a hard face with soft, runny eyes. he told me to relax. i asked him why and he pointed up.

i asked, "a plane" he said, "the sun" i asked "what?" he said
death
,grabbed my hand
i though he was going to pull me somewhere but just held it, rubbed
sandpaper
i zoned out
noticing sharp the siding on the walls, the writing on blasted grafitti, the labels on the styrofoam that dripped from the wastebins . it swirled around me. soup. my brain tried to catch up, it yelled 'germs' and 'rape' and 'mugg', as many ugly words as it would take to untrance
the rubbing became burn
in the areas between each vein and i looked up
his eyes were one or all of the colors of his flannel
sometimes the red of his hair, then the brown of his suspenders
it was too hot, for the month. oo hot for an alley. beads of sweat that felt hard and warm like bearings rolled down myt face and splashed in my boots. it all began to stink. he squeezed my hand and the veins pulsed. the blood was caught up like a knotted hose and i imagined it was spilling through my fingernails but i'm sure that that too was just those metal balls of sweat. my neck rashing nervous and itchy, i ripped my hand back to scratch it and everything calmed. a cold breeze softened the sweat and pushed it into my head. he spun around, grabbing a hot cup of cola from devil knows when from the dumpster and asked me if i had a couple of bills. i reached in and grabbed some warm dimes and sheepishly walked off
---
the woman pleaded (and she said it in all caps),
"I CAN'T TAKE THIS SHIT DAY FROM YOU DAY AFTER DAY AFTER DAY AFTER DAY."

and then the man said, likewise,
"WELL I CAN'T DEAL WITH THIS SHIT! FIVE YEARS NOW...RED PILLS, YELLOW PILLS, BLUE PILLS, WHITE FUCKEN PILLS. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?"

and there was silence. my ears sucked in, under their window, waiting for the crack. nothing.

then,
inexplicably
she was laughing. cackling really. that howling laughter i've only heard from women drunk on gin and spite. that determined laughter that cuts an angry man in half and begs him to strike. she waited for the crack, too. but i didn't hear one. didn't think so. if i did i'd have something to do i could call the cops or yell into their window that i called the cops and be a part of something. i could break my new boots in on their doorframe, and burst in. maybe both of them would go after me and we'd all look at each other crosseyed when i pass their yard where their ugly kids are playing.

i stopped daydreaming. they were still screaming and laughing and spitting vile. i shoved my hands deeper in my pockets and kept walking.

there would be nothing new at her house but i'd go anyway. i'd stop in and
do my thing
and leave
without so much as a change in facial expression
on either

we'd part and i'd walk
on a day too hot for the month and too hot for a jacket and i'd shove my hands so deep in my pockets that they weren't there anymore

looking up and thinking
death