By Way of Brooklyn

“Autumn’s cumin’. The leaves are turnin’ yellow…” His black coat hung over his broad shoulders, smoke and ash crowded his face as he spoke.

“I guess.” She hung back, the orange sun drowned behind her as the park grew cold in actuality and company. “Wat am I ‘ere for?”

He took a drag on his cigarette, biding his time, and smoothed back his slick, jet black hair; the wait for an answer made her nervous. “Ain’t dat da question, wat are ya ‘ere for, kid?” His menacingly playful smile chilled her to the bone. “You were late dis mont.”

“Not by much, I don’t tink. I’m… I’m sorry, it’s just hard –”

“ – Not my problem, kid. I got problems too, don’t see me spillin’ my guts to you, do ya?”

“No.” She quickly replied, shaking her head feverishly.

“Yea.” He relaxed, shook his shoulders, took a drag and mellowed again. “Just see it don’t ‘appen again.”

“No, I promise. Honest.” She nodded; a relieved, yet nervous smile played across her face, she knew what he was capable of, and it scared her.

He tapped her cheek fairly hard, reminding her who it was she was speaking to, who it was she dare defy. “You’ve a gud head on ya shoulders, kid.” He bent down to whisper in her ear. “Don’t make me haveta blow ya fuckin’ brains out.”