Street scene

Written from a prompt.

First published by And Then, Volume 20 under the pseudonym Linda Lacroix. Print only. Contact me if you’re interested.

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I saw my ex-husband in the street—between two parked cars on the south side of twelfth. Marsha and I were walking west on the north side, maneuvering between stoops and storefronts to the right, and green trash barrels on the curbside. A black squirrel eyeballed us from its haunches as Marsha pulled up short, twisting her head to peer across the street.

"I believe that man is urinating," she said.

Marsha and I had been sharing an apartment just short of two years, for reasons of economy. We got along okay, stayed out of each other's way, and like tonight, went out for the occasional drink. But our temperaments diverged, mine far more reticent—for example, I'd never scream at an oncoming cyclist, get off the sidewalk, asshole. So when we ambled, I always felt a bit on edge, and now this.

"I believe you're right," I said.

"He doesn't look like a street person," said Marsha. "What's his problem?"

"He's drunk," I said.

Marsha retwisted her head, giving me the straight-on. "What makes you so sure?"

"Because," I said, taking a second to compose my response, "drunks have to go all the time, and they don't care where."

Marsha pulled her cell from her bag. "Should we do 911 or 311?"

My pulse quickened. I put a hand over Marsha's and said, "The laws on public urination have been relaxed under the current administration." I kept my hand on Marsha's until she let the cell slip away.

"Well," said Marsha, "we should at least give him a shout-out, let him know he's not invisible."

I indented my fingers into Marsha's forearm and tugged. The black squirrel came off its haunches and darted behind a trash barrel. Marsha let me pull her past the next stoop, then dug in her shoes.

"It's indecent," she said. "We should tell him."

"Look," I said. My voice rose to a coarse whisper. "Drunks are dangerous. He could—"

"He could what?"

"He could knock us down. He could do things to us."

Marsha caught my urgency if not my meaning. I dragged her westward. Two slabs of sidewalk, five slabs, ten slabs, the last cracked and buckled.

"Drunks don't scare me," she said.

"They scare me."