Houston and Second Ave

The old man seemed to have lost a bond of community with Frankie's passing. The sadness in his voice grew deeper as he talked. The pauses became longer as images seemed to flicker behind his eyes in which the old man got lost until his eyes became loaded with tears. The world had moved on. He was living on the edge of the world, a foreign particle to the dominant age group of today. Jackson had mad respect for that older generation because they lived in a place so dangerous, it might as well have been a warzone. And they went into the abandoned, weed-covered lots to start community gardens - to plant seeds and bring beautiful nature to the downtrodden. The old man stumbled onward on his morning walk.

In the afternoon, the young Venezuelan woman came by. She had pep in her step and almost skip-jumped up to Jackson. Her smile shot across her face. Her eyes sparkled with light. She moved with ease. The same poor clothes were still on her, but her mood was a 180-degree change. She reached into her pocket and pulled something out. Jackson couldn't see because it fit inside of her palm.

"Sir, you have been so kind to me, I brought you a little gift," she said and reached out her hand. He accepted the thing and unfolded it. It was a handkerchief. "The fabric is from a Louis Vuitton shirt. It's very smooth fabric." He looked at it. There was a lot of stitching on it. There were some green plants and a gnome-like-looking blue man with a big belly. "It's you and the little park behind you!" Ah, he recognized the subway entrance. She must have spent a lot of care stitching the recognizable parts of his post. There was a smell. He sniffed it. "I sprayed it with rose water! Do you like it?"

There was something touching about all the care that she had put into it. He thanked her and put it into his pocket, but she didn't leave. She asked him, "What's your name?", "Where do you live?", "Do you have a sister or brother?", and other questions full of curiosity to get to know him. She was different. He didn't usually tell people about himself because they were too self-occupied. Next thing, he started telling her how his dad took him fishing in the Long Island Sound once when he was a kid. He told her about how his dad seemed unsure about fishing and what to do with his son, but that he seemed it meant a lot to him to try anyway.

Then, she told him about how her parents had taken her to America. When the the immigration service had been deporting them, she managed to run off. She had nothing, no money, no friends, no idea. She had simply run for it and made it. And somehow by the miracle of god, she had gotten a little food, a little water, slept outside on a warm night, and convinced someone to give her a little money for a lot of work. She was a trained seamstress. She was so glad that she was finally working in her profession. One day, when she could afford a regular housing accommodation, she wanted to have a cat - a sweet, little cat from a shelter that would cuddle with her at night.

Rosalita, as her name was, was a cute girl. She had a lot of sparkle. Her body was a little undernourished and lacked workouts, but she had gusto. When she was well taken care of, she burst out laughing, punched his chest, and jumped in circles. When she talked about the sadder parts of her life, she wilted away, becoming lifeless, drew into herself, and lost all emotions from her face. There was a sense of being precariously between two sides: Having made it and about to lose it all. A deep sense of instability was within her, the way how her emotions could rise and sink so fast.

Her face had small features. Her eyes were small brown buttons. She didn't have much in the way of boobs. And she appeared to be under her clothes even scrawnier than she appeared - very skinny. She was wearing a blue hoodie that hid her figure, making one wonder what kind of beauty she might be hiding underneath.

She had a way of laughing, joking, telling an animated story, looking away, but randomly, she'd look at him straight in the eyes with her brown eyes looking up at him. Her eyes seemed to grow larger. She seemed to pause her thought to seize him up. There was something very submissive in her look that made him stop breathing. She looked like a puppy begging for food with big eyes. The next moment, the look was completely gone. Jackson thought at first that he was imagining, but the look came back five times - exactly the same as before and each time lingered a little longer.

Long after she was gone, he couldn't shake that look - the way how it was intimately piercing. It made him feel like they were boyfriend/girlfriend. Nobody had taken an interest in him like that in years and joked with him. He had told her stories from his life that he had almost forgotten. She was an adorable woman.

A few days later, Rosalita came running to him, screaming for help. She instantly had his attention. He was at the ready. "Come! Quickly! Someone collapsed!" She pulled on his hand to follow her. He was hesitant. He never ran because that impacts scene awareness. He lightly jogged behind her. There was something about her hand tugging on him that made him more engaged.

They made it to the little triangular park a few blocks east where the last bit of traffic on Houston disappears because the street is too far east for anyone with a car wanting to go there. A poor black man lay sprawled on the floor. His shoes had no shoelaces - a common sign because mental wards remove shoelaces so that patients can hang themselves with them. His legs and arms were at weird angles. He was skinny. His clothes was darkened from deeply brown dirt stains and holes. A group of thuggish homeless drug dealers were sitting on chess tables ignoring their fallen comrade.

Jackson regretted coming here. Lots of homeless slept like that sprawled out in the streets. Now, he had to deal with it. "Sir!" he yelled. "Sir! Wake up!" he barked harder. The man didn't respond. Jackson shook the man's shoulder. Then Jackson checked the man's pulse. It was still there. Jackson got up and reached for the radio on his shoulder to call it in. He put himself into the familiar wide stance that he used for waiting for the medic to show up.

"You have to help him," Rosalita said earnestly. Her face looked so worried. She seemed to really care about the stranger. Her eyes looked like she was expecting some kind of superhero to come with a cape and save the day.

"The medic will take care of him," Jackson said reflexively. He instantly realized how cold his usual line must have sounded. He had wanted to impress Rosalita. He wanted her to hang out more with him. Her company had made him feel good. He craved that feeling.

He thought of what to do. Some of his colleagues had started carrying naloxone, but he hadn't because his union rep had said that the police should pay officers more money if they carried out extra duties. By carrying naloxone, he was undermining the bargaining position of the union. So he didn't have any. The guy hadn't thrown up either. He couldn't think of what to do. People like him usually got picked up by a stretcher and were a few days later back face-down on the street. And if the ambulance didn't pick them up, they seemed to pick themselves up a few hours later. Sometimes, they kicked the can. That was simply the way it was.

He checked the pulse again to at least seem like he was doing something. He started feeling very uncomfortable. Calls like these were usually categorized as a level 3 ambulance call. It could take two hours of standing around. He didn't know how to deal with Rosalita's worry growing more intense by the minute for so long. Allan finally showed up because he had been walking instead of jogging.

The thuggish-looking homeless drug dealers grew uncomfortable with the growing police presence. They started packing up their things to leave farther east. Some regular people started rubbernecking to see what was going on. A short, woman with a giant afro got her phone out to videotape everything. "Did the cops do that?" whispered someone among the watchers.

The best thing he could do was step aside and call his watch commander on the phone. He embellished the scene a little bit to make it seem like perhaps a volatile Black Lives Matter protest brewing. The watch commander said he'd sent more uniforms. There were eight of them standing around the man on the floor now. The crowd gave a bit more respectful space. However, the bigger presence also attracted more attention. Finally, a white-shirt showed up. He got on his phone and made calls.

An ambulance showed up within minutes. The paramedics walked slowly as they were trained to take in the scene and not miss anything critical. They walked with a medical box. The lead paramedic yelled loudly at the man on the floor "Sir! Sir!" Then he rubbed the man's chest with his knuckles with quite some force. The man's eyes opened. The man looked scared, drowsy, and out of it.

"No! No ambulance!" he cried out. "I don't want to go back there!"

The medic looked at the man sternly, "I need you to sign that you are refusing the ambulance against medical advice." The man signed really quickly. He staggered away into the Lower Eastside, having lost his dirty, white sneakers without shoelaces in the process of standing up. He stumbled barefoot down a side street against oncoming traffic. The crowd dispersed.

When it was only Jackson and Rosalita left, she said, "I thought he was dying." She looked at Jackson with a puzzled face, unable to make sense of it. It all made fully sense to Jackson. That's why he avoided getting drawn into those situations. He looked into Rosalita's face. There was so much idealism in it. He couldn't shatter that by explaining it to her. So he hugged her and held her. "The world is a difficult place," he told her. She understood enough from his hug and the sorrow in his voice. Her whole body was pressed against him. She became comfortable resting her face on his chest.

"I'm sorry," she said with a lot of tenderness and walked away.

The next day, she came running again. "Jackson! Jackson! You must help!" He had the instant revolt of being pulled again into a nuisance call. However, she was so sweet. He couldn't resist her especially when she took his hand - those soft, small, feminine fingers - so warm! He followed her down Second Avenue into a side alley. He scanned the alley for any potentially dangerous people. There wasn't a single person.

She dragged him deeper into the alley. She pointed at something on the floor. It was a half-dead pigeon. He usually let it be or occasionally picked them up to throw them in the trash. That impulse made his skin burn like fire because he realized how appalled she would be if he did that in front of her. Damn, pigeon! He really wanted to impress her. She clearly had a child's idea about the police, like when the picture books show a police officer climbing a tree to fetch a cat.

The officer had a group chat. He sent a text, "Civvy wants to take care of a hurt pigeon. What can be done? #peaches'n'roses."

"I never thought you'd send a #peaches'n'roses message! You are so straight up!"

"Just tell her that'll take care of the pigeon and then throw it in the trash when she's gone."

"Actually, there is a pigeon rescue on the Westside. I'll look for the address."

So they ended up going on a subway ride together. Rosalita was holding the pigeon in her hand, protected by an evidence bag. They got talking. She didn't have a boyfriend. The last guy was a do-no-gooder. They didn't seem close - a light affair for a few weeks. She saw herself as the woman who cooks for her boyfriend and wears nice things. He asked her what she would rate him on a scale from one to ten. She blushed and said, "I don't wanna say!" At first, he thought she didn't want to offend him, but she fought so fiercely against saying it that there seemed to be more to it.

They had to take a second subway and go far to the Westside. The receptionist was very friendly, and evidently in love with pigeons. The pigeon quickly got a name: Concorde. Rosalita was over happy to have rescued a pigeon. Jackson was glad about the little trip.

They meandered back into the street. Being so far west, the little street as empty. He recognized his opportunity to not have witnesses. He pulled her close and then went for those pink lips that he had been eyeing the whole time on the subway. They had been tempting him so deliciously. He paused with a lip kiss to see her reaction. She stuck her little tongue out to feel for his teeth. She closed her eyes. He welcomed her with his tongue. The tongue danced a little. Then she pushed her arms against his chest and ran away.

He snuffed his nose to blow away the bad emotions. Then he walked coldly back to the subway. She had no witnesses. It would be her word against his. He wished it would have turned out differently. He had been sure that she was blushing because she thought of him as a ten and was too embarrassed to admit that she was crushing on him. He told himself to be cool. Colleagues had gotten away with way worse and bragged about it. He'd keep the story to himself.

The next day in the late afternoon, Rosalita came walking up to them. She walked really oddly with her hips swinging from side to side. She paused and continued. "What's up?" he asked coldly, bracing for a complaint. Allan was surprised by the tone the two had struck because they always talked with such adoration to each other.

"I got very shy," she admitted. "So I ran."

Her admission was standing in the air, posed like a question to ask if he would take her back and if he could forgive her. Jackson put himself more relaxed. A smile went over his face because he realized that he'd very likely get to kiss her again. "No big deal, honey!" he told her. She smiled happy that he wasn't mad at her.

"Do you want to get a tea?" he asked her.

She nodded. Allan nodded to tell him that it was okay to take a five-minute break. They walked up Second Avenue, hung a right on Second Street. He knew that there was this little space in the facade of a building that one could duck into where one would be invisible except for someone standing right in front of it. It was conveniently on the way to the tea place. When they came up to it, he grabbed her upper arms with both hands, pulled her in, pressed her against the wall, hungrily latched his lips onto hers. She reacted quickly and pulled him closer with both her fists gripping his t-shirt. She hungrily sucked on his mouth fast, hot, and bothered. He lifted her off her feet to get a better angle at her mouth. She was so hungry for his lips, sucking and biting on them.

Then he put her down and kept walking towards the tea place. Her eyes were popped wide open. Her lipstick was smudged all over her face. She tried to clean it up. He could feel her heart beating so hard and fast. They had both liked it. They were both hungry for more. He was wearing a uniform. They were out in the open street. He had to be careful. She kept looking at him with hungry eyes, biting her lower lip. She was so ready for more. She was waiting for him to make the move.

He had that itch of excitement that he had as a first-year cop like he was about to do something as soon as he knew how. He bought her a tea. There was no question that he was paying for her. She looked at him seductively. There was this pause in her eyes like she was watching him to do a move. Her eyes were full of excitement.

"I'm going to visit you after work for dinner," he said like it was a done deal.

"I'll cook for you," she responded.

They parted ways.

When Jackson returned to Allan, Allan had one of the few times when he got off the phone. "You deserve her! I'm really glad for you," Allan said. "She's cute. She looks like good wife material: responsible and traditional manners. From her first visit, I could tell that she had a thing for you. The badge can be a powerful aphrodisiac for some. You are an authority figure. Maybe, she has some daddy issues. I think Ananya and I are going to get married eventually. We are not hot for each other, but we've been comfortable with each other for so many years that it's hard to think of looking for someone else."

After work, Jackson looked up her address. He rang the doorbell. He walked up the six flights of stairs. She opened the ramshackle door. He had to take his shoes off and carry them. They walked through the landlord's apartment in socks until they got to her room. It was a small room with only a bed inside and a tiny window. A small plastic Ikea tub was the only storage for her things.

"No street clothes on the bed!" she warned.

He was well familiar with the disdain that New Yorkers had for wearing clothes that they used to sit down on the subway on their home furniture. He was a little unsure of what he was going to do about it. She sat down comfortably on the bed. Her comfort signaled a surprising level of intimacy of their meeting.

"Just take them off," she told him.

He grabbed his pant button to signal that he was going to take them off. She didn't stop him. He slipped the pants down to reveal with checkered boxer shorts. He pulled his t-shirt over his head. She looked his body up and down smitten, checking out everything that his socks and boxer shorts didn't hide. He wasn't too much to look at, but he was stark naked and manly with hair on his chest and a gold chain.

"What are we having for dinner?" he asked her, noticing that there were no plates and bowls around.

"Me! I thought!" she said, smiling like a she-devil. Her face captured her feeling of about to taste a forbidden fruit. She really stepped out of her comfort zone to make all the dreams happen that she had been secretly dreaming about down to the dialog, that audacious dialog and the bold move.

"It's only fair that I match you!" she said, her cheeks blushing. Then she pulled her t-shirt overhead. Her body was so much more slender than he had imagined. She was like a porcelain statue. She dropped her pants. She was in her socks now, too. The pink panties and bra matched. His dick grew hard caressing her body, eyeing her belly button, yearning to see the small breasts uncovered, and imagining grabbing her bare ass with abandon. The anticipation was a strong aphrodisiac. His dick grew to the limits of the boxer shorts containing it.

"I wanna see!" she said curious like a mouse. A bit clumsy, she pulled his shorts down with both hands. She admired his hard penis. He admired her staring at his penis. He loved the way how she measured up his penis and how she seemed so unfamiliar with a penis that she had to take it in, observe it, and even ponder it. Then she took it in her mouth. That soft flesh of her lips glid over his penis head. She even had the attention to pull her hair to the side so that she could get a good look at her face with his cock in her mouth.

Her mouth on his cock was all the permission that he needed. He unclipped her bra behind her. She had tiny breasts and giant nipples. He loved seeing her so bare. She had knee-high socks with multi-colored rings on them. He left the socks on her. He kicked his boxer shorts all the way off his ankles. He threw her on her bed. She bounced a couple of times. He grabbed her ankles to pull her butt to the edge of the bed. She was all prepared with her legs wide presenting her pussy to him, looking up at him with eager eyes to get her sex feast.

He put on a condom, rolling it down impatiently, feeling the rubber tightening around his penis, making it harder. He checked her pussy by moving his hand along the slid towards the hole. She was soaking wet. Moderate girls tend to hide their lust deeply. He placed his condom-wearing cock at her opening and thrust in. Kneeling at the bottom of the bed, he pulled her legs against his chest to get good leverage on her hips. And then he started thrusting. She started moaning right away, which spurned him on even more.