———–

Three

My mind started to race around the problem at hand. How do you apologize to a beautiful woman whose nose you have just smashed while getting her to stop screaming and hitting you and still manage to ask her out?

I fumbled in my shoulder bag for a tissue with one hand while trying to fend off the rake of her perfectly manicured nails with the other. They were, her nails, lacquered in a wonderful blood red I noticed, and wondered if any of it was mine. Tissue found, I tried to back up and bumped into the door of the train. Waving the tissue in front of her, hoping she would take notice of it and calm down some proved futile as a solid swipe of her claws ripped it to shreds. The other passengers, as you might expect, were rather interested in what was going on. Some of them had even started to stand up as if to intervene, hopefully on my behalf but being honest with myself I knew that was not to be the case. Choosing the wise course of action I braced myself as the train slowed to a halt at 59th and stepped backwards onto the platform the second the doors slid open.

Sadly enough, she followed me out still swinging like Barry Bonds on amphetamines. She was, I felt, even more beautiful while angry. I needed to slow her down before she hurt someone. Me.

Looking at her as I took another step back I saw my course of action.

“Mam? EXCUSE ME!” I ventured, “You have blood running down onto your shirt.” She stopped swinging at me and looked down at herself in horror.

“You. Killed. My. Silk. Blouse.” She spat out like slow revolver fire.

“No, see, that was an accident. I didn’t mean to hit you and …” Her eyes held mine like twin light sabers wielded by the Dark Side. She was in no way buying what I was selling. “Look let me make it up to you.”

“You killed it. My best silk blouse. Dead. You. Dead. Silk no more. Ruined.”

“Uhh,” Why was she talking like this? “I’ll pay for it. Really, not a problem. How’s your nose?”

“My nose! You,” She reached tentatively up towards the bloodied offense and winced as her fingertips touched it, “Fuck! You Fuck! You fucking broke my fucking nose!” Well at least her language centers were firing on all cylinders again.

“No, it doesn’t look broken, really. Uhh here…” I hesitantly offered her another tissue from my bag. This one she took slowly as if deciding that I might, at any moment, decide to pop her one instead. She dabbed gently at her face with it and I took the chance to truly look at her.

Her wild black hair billowed off her head like a spider plant thinking about a change of venue even as it tried to slowly curl back on itself. The tentacled ends rested upon her shoulders framing a face that managed to encompass dull green eyes and a wide full mouth as well as a rather bloodied nose. She was about my height, 5′11″ give or take an inch, and draped in a lush blue silk shirt (now sporting a rather unattractive smattering of quickly drying blood) and jet black jeans tucked into a pair of black and blue polka dotted Doc Martens that came halfway up her calf. Simply stunning. I was mid-gawk when I heard her clear her throat. I looked back into her eyes with a snap.

“Thanks … for the tissue at least.” She stated calmly as she handed it back. What was I supposed to do with a bloody tissue exactly? Was there protocol for that move that I simply wasn’t aware of? I stood there for a second, holding the tissue with two fingers considering if it was better to gaily lob it onto the tracks or if it should find a new home in a pocket until I crossed paths with a trash can next.

I went for the pocket move and managed to get it crammed on in without really touching it, even though I was sure the inside of my pocket would now need a good wash. After shoving a tissue with her most precious bodily fluid into my jeans I felt I had the courage to take our relationship to the next, and non homicidal, level.

“I’m Thomas Klien, the fuck who killed your shirt,” I said lightly as I held out a hand (the one that hadn’t handled the bloodied tissue) towards her . She shook her head, as if unsure as to what her reaction should be anger or bemusement, and took my hand in hers with a polite shake.

“Michelle Christians, not very pleased to meet you honestly.”

“Oh, come on. Where would you have been without me to relived the tedium of your otherwise standard dull train ride?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. The witty banter won’t work. I’m sure it gets you pretty far a lot of days but today is not one of them Mister. No way.” Her lips twitched when she said it though, like it was one of the days the banter worked but she couldn’t just let me have the smile. I was going to have to work for it.

“You’re on to me. This is the only way I have left to meet women in this town, what can I say? First you bloody their face, then you buy them dinner.”

“I said,” She informed me while a hint of a smile formed on her face, “it won’t work. You do not get to fuck me up and ask me out in the same day. No chance, sorry.”

“Wait, before you go then, how much do I owe you for the shirt? I really do feel bad about that.”

“The blouse,” She emphasized the word blouse as if me calling it a shirt somehow made it a lesser being, “will cost you a hundred bucks.”

“Oh. Really? A hundred huh?”

“Cool and even, thanks.” Her hand laid open between us palm up, waiting for money to magically appear upon it bequeathed by righteousness. I found myself staring at her hand, waiting for the money to show up in it too and hoping that somehow it didn’t require my help to get there.

“If you give me somewhere to send the money …”

“Did I just step off a bus? Not only are you some kind of violent freak but you also stalk people?” I decided to imagine I saw a brief glint of humor on her face when she said that.

“What no I just don’t …”

“Oh so you’re a broke violent stalker?”

“Wait, no you see …”

“Jesus you are a piece of work aren’t you?”

“But I was only …”

“Trying to lure me into giving you my address so you could find me and kill me later. I know.”

“No! Stop interrupting me damn it! I don’t happen to have that much cash on me. I have maybe forty bucks, which you can have if you want, and I can tell you where to get a free copy of today’s Post. That’s about it, but I do want to pay you back. Alright?”

“Well I can’t stand here forever while you run and fetch it, but I’ll take the forty now as a down payment.” I dug in my back pocket and grabbed all the cash I had wadded up there, counting it and smoothing it out as I handed it to her. We found out I had been slightly wrong, possessing in fact forty-three dollars in all. She nodded at me and looked me slowly up and down from my thick black combat boots, past my fading blue jeans to slide her eyes across my “Free Vidicon” black T-shirt finally settling once again on my face with its short brown hair. I tried valiantly not to squirm as she took stock trying to guess what I would be worth if she sold me to white slavers. Finally she nodded again and smiled a true smile at me, disarming me utterly. She licked her lips, wetting them in preparation for speech.

“Give me some ID,” she told me, still smiling, “A driver’s license or something.”

“What? Why?”

“It has your address on it. I’ll call you tonight and we can meet somewhere public so you can give me the rest of the money.” Damn it, it made some sort of sense but I didn’t want to just hand over something like that.

“Well, I …”

“Oh you want me to trust you but you won’t trust me? I could start screaming and hitting you again until a cop came.” She had a point. I sighed and gave her my State non-Driver’s ID which she flipped over a few times and slid into her purse.

“I’ll call you around 8,” was all she said as she turned on her heels and stalked off down the platform towards the stairs for an uptown train probably to go home and change. Now I just had to find sixty bucks by 8pm.

———–
Never Bite the Homeless is copyright Adam P. Knave.