“Who are you talking to?”
“What?” He noticed he was lying down. He sat up. The cap was loose on his bottle, and a few precious drops had been lost, quickly evaporating on the hot concrete. He tightened it hastily, nearly spilling more in the process. “What did you say?”
“You were just yelling a bunch of nonsense. Sounded like a f-d up conversation to me,” she slurred, getting to her feet. “I’m doing my rounds. You want anything?”
“No, I think I’m sick. Don’t want nothin’. What was I sayin’?”
“Some shit about a piano, I dunno.” Velma, a 22-year old street walker, got to her feet slowly, like an old lady. She stretched, holding her lower back. “My dogs is killin’ me. You need to get out from under here, J. Do ya good. Quit yer mopin’.”
“Right.” Jonathon wondered what time it was. He wistfully watched Velma walk away, working those hips. There was a time he didn’t have to pay for that.
“Time to take back what’s mine,” he thought, as he walked up out of the culvert onto the New York street.