Traffic

“It’s done!” I said, screaming from across the street during rush hour traffic. An MTA bus drove past and I saw Sire standing with his fists at his side. The light turned green, he walked in front of a speeding yellow buggy car that abruptly pressed its brakes, and the driver honked. Sire stuck his middle finger up, held his hand out to the other side of busy traffic as if he was some important figure in the United States. He reached the sidewalk I was releasing my tears on, grabbed me by the shoulder, and stared at me in my eyes. “Ari, what do you mean it’s done?” His hand wasn’t welcoming on my shoulder, I felt my skin tightening and if he were to remove his pressure it would look like a sun-dried grape. I said, “I don’t have to explain anything to you.” He looked away from me, observing the traffic, there was a jam at the intersection where there was this school bus, mail truck, and a few taxis going in opposite directions. He looked back at me again, I was sniffling trying to hold back my tears, thinking about whether I should curse him out or walk away silently. Then, he said after exhaling a breath, “It won’t happen again.”

I brushed his hand off of my shoulder and took a step back to look at him in full frame. What he looked like now wasn’t the same Sire I met a year ago. Back then, he was full of light, his skin glowed with a warm olive tint, his eyes twinkled like the sparkles in the sand, and his curly hair grew outwards creating a rounded afro. Now, his hair was flattened by the hoodie he wore, his skin was less moisturized, his eyes sunken in his face, the wrinkles seemed to be at work in absorbing all of his stress, and his smile was hidden behind the darkness he carried. His soul was tied to mine, I needed to break free, but how? I crossed my arms, stared out into the less busy traffic now, and said “I didn’t care about the money. I wanted you to understand that you didn’t have to do it.” He licked his white crusty lips, but before he responded I said something else. “We should’ve talked about it first,” I said. “The fact that you told me on my birthday that you were going to do...that, of course, I was going to break up with you. If it were me-”

Sire put his hand in my face. I flinched, but he didn’t hit me at all. It was just his silent gesture of telling me to stop talking. I had a lot of bad relationships. The traffic became noisy, with more MTA buses, school buses, more taxis, and more angry drivers wanting to get to their destinations in three seconds. I glanced at the traffic and it was horrendous. No driver seemed to know where they wanted to turn or when they needed to go. He said “It was $2,000. That was the deal. We were both in need of money and I thought about us. Do you think I wanted to do something like that? No, but I did it because I cared. I love you.” Love, that’s a cheap thing to say. I remained quiet. He continued, “I just need you to understand that I ain’t coming from a bad place. I got the money right now.” He dug deep into his sweatpants and pulled out a sweaty stack of one-thousand dollar bills wrapped with a faded red rubber band. “Your half.” He said eagerly.

I grabbed the stack, plucking the rubber band, and asked “Did you enjoy it?” The street became clear of traffic, something was emerging in him, and after two minutes of silence, there was a crowd of bicyclists coming down the street. So many neon colors, Poland spring water bottles, and some woman wearing a large pink hat said “Come y’all one more mile. The home stretch!” It was soothing to watch the bicyclists. I repeated my question to him, He pulled down his hood and began to cry. I had no more tears to release from my body. I was too exhausted to cry for him anymore. We were in front of a brownstone building and Sire sat on the last step. I was still standing holding the sweaty money stack by my side.

“I had my eyes closed.” He murmured. I didn’t hear him too well and I asked him to repeat it. He sat up straight, although not looking at me, and said with more volume “I had my eyes closed.” I sat down next to him. He took a deep breath and said “I don’t want you to think of me any different. I-uh, I just don’t know how to feel about it.” His eyes were glossy, very glass-like, and he was heavily focused on a bicyclist that fell because there was a pothole unbeknownst to them. A few bicyclists stopped and aided the fallen bicyclist. I put the stack in between us and asked “Did he say anything to you after?” Sire was still watching the people beside the bicyclist. He said “After it was over, we sent the video to Jackie, and she handed over our cash. We drove home in silence.”

I noticed his face was strained from all of the cries he did. “You don’t have to keep it,” he said, “I’ll take it if it makes you feel better.” I got up from the steps, rubbed the back of my neck, and the fallen bicyclist was up on their bike and rode off with the rest of the crowd. “I never wanted it. Everybody needs money, but there are better ways to obtain that. Thank you, but you know that ain’t how I do things.” I walked away, the traffic picked up again, but this time everything was in a smooth motion. No honking, no angry drivers, no illegal turns, it was just smooth. I reached the corner, the automatic voice said “go,” and I crossed to the other side. I turned back to look at Sire once more. He took the stack of money, pulled off the rubber band, and threw it into the street of moving cars. The bills fluttered in the air as if there were birds flying in all directions, confused, lost, and the cars below stopped to view the chaos. The honks ensued in the air, someone yelled through their window “Yo, this is crazy,” and Sire walked in the opposite direction disappearing around the corner. The traffic became jammed again and some people filed out of their cars to pick up the sweaty, stained, and sorrowful money.