Night City

Bay Breathing

She breathed in deeply as she stepped outside of the building onto the dark street, expecting to be filled with cold night air but instead with the thick, burning car exhaust. The cold bit at her and she shoved her hands into the small pockets of her tight jeans. She stood on the sidewalk, contemplating which way to go. To the right, the red glow of cars, stopped at stoplights or braking intensely, avoiding other drivers doing the exact same thing. To the left the blinding flash of oncoming cars, their headlights glaring at her like strange eyes. She only heard the sounds of motors and the whines of cars braking. All of the sounds combined were like a massive swarm of bees, their bodies flying, vibrating, stinging. 

She went right, with the way of the slowly moving traffic. She shot quick glances at the people sitting in the immobile cars at stoplights, some of their faces stoic, some tired or sad. Their were more people on the sidewalk than the road, and she would occasionally bump into someone, someone larger than her, capable of manipulating her. She could feel their eyes as she walked past them. The buildings loomed above her, like giant pillars, the only thing that wasn't making any noise. She stopped at a crosswalk, waiting impatiently for the red hand to vanish and the white glow to welcome her to walk across. She was surrounded by a crowd of people. She could feel the warmth of the mass grow, the cold was just a vague sensation. People breathed on her and coughed. She heard the combination of yawns and car horns. She pulled her parka hood on and looked down at her small feet, engulfed in old, dying shoes, the laces stained with years of use. 

The red hand on the high pole quickly turned to the white glow; she saw it in a puddle at her feet and before she could lift her head up people were shoving at her from behind. She felt someone bump roughly into her shoulder and hurry across the road. She walked with the crowd, a herd of people avoiding the intimidating glares of the patient cars, their motors growling, ready to pounce. Someone in a car driving by whistled at her, and she knew the whistle was meant for her. She pulled her jacket together, obscuring the swelling of her breasts, and zipped it all the way up. 

She made it to the other side of the road and turned right. Most of the crowd she was with either continued straight or waited at another cross walk. The sidewalk she was on now went downhill and she felt her pace increase, her feet slapped the pavement roughly, creating echoes in the dark alleys. This road led to the outskirts of town and already the noise was settling. She saw the bridge against the soft glow of the night, standing alone out in the ocean. The night grew darker, she felt, with the absence of the angry traffic.

The sidewalk leveled out and her pace slowed to calm steps. Her breath became visible, like smoke, and she remembered her cigarettes. She reached into her front pocket and pulled out the wrinkled box of death. That's what her mom called it. She knew it was the worst thing she could possibly do, but she couldn't stop her self. Her thumb pushed the lid open, revealing two cigarettes. She took one and placed it in between her cold, white lips. She replaced the small box with a lighter and thumbed the wheel, but only sparks were born and died instantly. She tried again but with the same outcome she threw the lighter on the sidewalk, cursing herself.

She felt the unresolved, unsatisfied feeling grow in her chest. The anxiety made it hard for her to breathe. Her hands shook, her whole body in fact, and she nearly screamed when the man on the side of the pavement spoke to her.

“Excuse me, miss.”

She jumped, sharp cold air ran through her body. She turned her head too fast at the man on the ground, and the cigarette fell out of the tight grip of her lips. 

“Yes?” 

The man shuffled up to a sitting position, and the cardboard underneath him scratched against the ground. She could smell him, even through the blanket of cold, numbing air the stench was noticeable. 

“Could I have that cigarette?”

He pointed to the cigarette on the ground with an extended finger, stained with filth, dirt under his fingernail. His clothes were torn, some of his skin exposed under the open wounds of the garment. His breath came out as a whole cloud of desperate, freezing cold. She bent to pick up the cigarette, and as she did she eyed the man nervously. She grabbed it with to thin fingers and held it in front of him, noticing the vague red marks of her lipstick. 

He took it slowly, almost kindly, as if she was giving him something very fragile. She leaned back up and looked at the homeless man on the ground, feeling upset and melancholy.

“Thank you so much, miss, I appreciate it so much.”

He placed it in the bearded hole in his face, the red mark of her lipstick disappearing under his cracked lips. She nodded and smiled and turned to continue down the sidewalk. Her feet moved like a machine below her, and her footsteps became obnoxiously audible. He didn't even ask for a lighter. She slowly turned her head around to look at the man, and noticed he had the cigarette sitting in his lips, unlit.