Shuffle

The pair of them were arguing on a street corner. He was a big guy, probably six foot and change, bundled up like the water boy for the Pittsburgh Steelers. He wasn't much more than a kid, but a mean kid, the kind you can't work up the nerve to feel too sorry for no matter how bad he has it.

Guys like him always have it bad. They bounce from bad job to worse job to no job and then maybe occasionally back again. On a starvation budget, they still manage to dress like hangers on for a second tier rap star and frequently add a new layer of ink to his arms, which is like saving for a rainy day, something to impress the boys at the regional jail.

You feel sorry for the girl. You always feel sorry for the girl. She's small, slender, dressed in denim, and scowling while he yells and paces back and forth across the road.

One look at her. One look at him and the question is always the same: why? Why have anything to do with this asshole?

So, he yells something; mouth wide open, teeth bared, spittle dripping off his lower lip. He flails and shake his head, while she glares and measures out her words by the poisonous spoonful. Credit where credit is due. Every single one of them hurts; crushes his heart, his balls or both a little tighter.

This goes on for a couple of minutes: back and forth.

Finally, he stomps across the street, opens the door and fires back one short, predictable salvo: Fuck you. He'd said it before. He'd said it a dozen times in just a few of minutes, but this is the last one, the only one he had left.

He slams the door while she briefly watches, then rolls her eyes. It's not long before a beat up rag top with her old Mama behind the wheel oozes by and takes her away.

I like my new ipod, but I still miss a lot, I think.