Pitch black shadows mixed with spots of artificial light
The damp cement makes rubber tires woosh past us
Umbrella clutched between me and my significant other
A blink and a rush
A small blonde child shaken
Parents turned around
A young, dark woman with dark clothes leaned against the wall
Looks of bewilderment riddle her face
As an intimidating darker man screams at the top of his lungs
“THAT WAS THE WRONG STOP!”
Accusations fly
His actions muffle the words to a complete mute
He stands over her
Hands clasped around her neck
More pressure applied as his actions become more unpredictable
We look around, wondering where her protection comes from
Wondering whether the parents of the blonde baby would do anything about the shoving
Confronted with our own past experiences with abuse
We summon the police almost instantly
Not curious to see another statistic
Inconsiderate of whatever pretentious feelings this abuser might have
We hustle forward
Past the YMCAs, Salvation Armys, and other centers of respite closed to her
He’s moving now,
Past us, who sought to protect her indirectly
Still furious for the same reasons which was no reason
I grow ever more unnerved by this environment
She’s now went from chasing him to chasing cars
In moving traffic
Either finding a car to transport her to her next destination
Or to a final one
And ironically
He grabs her, pushes her to the car, and asks her,
“What the fuck is wrong with you!?”
With no visible marks on her neck
No rings around her eyes
Clothes not-so-neatly wrapping her complete exterior
No tattered garments
And a voice indiscernible from the din of a Tuesday night in NYC,
I replied in an inaudible whisper,
“You.”