Free The City Still Breathing by Matthew Heiti

man.’ Nice, like the word means something. Something other than Frank the insurance salesman who liked to go for steak dinners and always split the tab. Or Lorenzo the janitor who talked only about the woman who left him and never mentioned his daughter. Or old Tom Frost who was still married, still living with his wife, but soon, soon, someday. Or Felix, or Hank, or James, or the other men. Nice, what you reach at the end of words.
    â€˜You put yourself through it so you don’t end up alone.’
    â€˜I’m not alone.’
    â€˜Don’t talk to me about that boy of yours – him out all hours of the day and night. He was in at the restaurant this morning bragging about some stuff he pawned at Oz’s.’
    â€˜What stuff?’
    â€˜For drugs probably. Or booze.’
    â€˜He doesn’t touch that shit.’
    â€˜Oh, don’t be an idiot. He’ll move out someday – soon – and what’ll you have? A big empty apartment.’
    â€˜I like being alone.’
    â€˜No you don’t.’ Lucy shakes water off like a drowning rat, while Mario attacks her with a towel. ‘No one does. The worst thing in the world. Any one of em is better than that.’
    Martha picks up another magazine she’s already read and starts to re-reread an article about all the new things that give you cancer. Behind her, Mario hums opera as he washes out Lucy’s hair, stopping to look at the television, stopping to chat, stopping to touch his moustache in the mirror, stopping to take the espresso pot off the hot plate, stopping so often that he might never finish washing Lucy’s hair.
    â€˜Mario, can you get this out before my hair goes purple already?’ Lucy thrashes around to see Mario peering out the window. ‘Fuck’s sake, Martha, it’s snowing.’
    Martha looks up from her magazine. Outside, snowflakes fat and slow are coming down, still space enough for people to dodge between. A couple walks by, the man’s arm thrown across the woman’s shoulders, pulling her close, her burrowing into his chest, getting ready for the winter.
    Mario turns at the window, points his comb at Martha. ‘A man say nice things but he not the nice man.’
    Martha with her perm and Lucy with her black-almost-purple hair under the awning of Mario’s shop, Martha smoking her second-last cigarette and watching the barber pole spin.
    â€˜Just like it to snow today.’ Lucy looks at the sky, the universe against her. ‘So where’re you meeting this guy?’
    â€˜The Empress.’
    â€˜Ooh, cultured. When?’
    â€˜Bout a half-hour.’
    â€˜Perfect. Enough time to grab a beer.’
    â€˜It’s not even noon.’
    â€˜C’mon, help you loosen up.’ Lucy pulls Martha off down the street, both of them rushing with a hand up like some small shield to protect their new hair. Martha tries to picture what a Walter would look like and if it matters anyway. Long face, droopy eyes, bad sweater.
    They pass Normando pushing his popcorn cart, Lucy giving him a dirty look and whispering to Martha, ‘You know he picks his nose.’ Martha tries to shush her but Lucy mimes jamming a finger up her nose, like Martha needs the image. One of the wheels going squeaky on him as Normando pushes that thing down the street to the corner. The same corner. And Martha almost turns and goes back to buy a bag of popcorn, nose picking or not, to thank him for being there year after year. For sticking around.
    â€˜Ain’t that your boy over there?’ Lucy pointing across the intersection and Martha sees Slim coming up Elm, the collar of his jacket flipped up against the weather.
    â€˜Slim honey!’ He stops and looks around, spots her across the street and cringes. She shouldn’t’ve said honey and she shouldn’t wave but she does anyway. ‘Honey, I work at four, but I’ll leave some dinner on the stove.’