Girl in Pieces

The next morning, I’m up before the sun rises, drawing in the half-light, eating a piece of bread with peanut butter. I’m drawing Ellis, what I remember of her. She liked me to talk to her when she took a bath, her skin wet and shiny. I loved her skin, the smoothness of it, rich and unscarred.

At work, Riley is on time, but he looks terrible, his face ashen and his eyes dark. He gets a little color back after he sneaks some beer from the fridge. I pretend like I don’t see, but I think he knows I know. Mostly, I just stay quiet and so does he. I get the feeling you have to tiptoe around him a lot.

After work, I ride my bike back downtown. I find the shelter and the kitchen; the men were right. Lines of resigned-looking women and jittery-eyed kids are camped out under tarps hiding from the sun, waiting for the kitchen to open for dinner. Around the back of the building are bins of clothing and household goods under a long gray tent. A shelter worker reads a magazine while I rifle through the bins, taking some plates and coffee-stained cups, utensils, a chipped pink bowl. I find a tub filled with bags of sanitary napkins, boxes of tampons. The shelter worker hands me two rolls of toilet paper, tells me that’s the limit. She gives me a Baggie with a toothbrush, floss, two condoms, a tube of toothpaste, a flyer with directions to a food shelf that looks miles and miles away, and a pile of pamphlets about STDs and food stamps. I tell her thanks and she smiles a little. I don’t feel weird about coming here. Evan called places like this godsends. It is what it is. I take my meager supplies back to Mikey’s and draw until it gets solidly dark.

It’s after ten o’clock when I ride over to Fourth Avenue and head down the alley behind the Food Conspiracy. I’ve been thinking about this ever since I came to the co-op that first time—that this would be the ideal place for vegetables and fruit in the Dumpster. I’m still against using any of the money Ellis and I made. If I spend that, it should be for a place to live, and the money I get from Grit isn’t much. My stomach is starting to hurt from all the peanut butter sandwiches. I need something else.

I work quickly, filling my backpack with bruised apples, dented peaches, too-soft celery. Just as I’m zipping it up, I notice a figure at the end of the alley, watching and swaying slightly.

At the shelter, I snagged a fork for protection and wedged it into my pocket. My fingers curl around it now as I stare down the alley at the weaving figure. But then I let my breath out and my fingers loosen.

Riley takes a drag from his cigarette. Before I can stop myself, my words are out, tentative, unfurling down the alley to him.

“Riley,” I say. “Hey. Hi.”

I want him to talk to me, but he only takes a drag from his cigarette and keeps walking. “Bye,” I call out, but he doesn’t look back.

I wait for him to mention it the next morning at work, but he doesn’t. In fact, he doesn’t say much of anything all day.

But when I go to punch out, he appears with a brown bag. There are circles underneath his eyes.

“If you’re hungry,” he says, “ask. I don’t want to see you in dark alleys anymore, Strange Girl. Okay?”

He walks back to the cook station without waiting for my answer.