. :: the sidewalks of old New York :: "You know what this is about, don't you?" she'd said, drawing Foster aside. "What?" he'd said. "He's soliciting," she'd said. "You." "Surely not," he'd said. "A boy?" Now she stood in the doorway and watched, unseen. The boy wore brown: brown cap, brown jacket, brown trousers, the broken buckle of one cuff clattering by his knee. Brown socks and brown shoes; a smear of tar on one sole. His elbows threadbare: she could see his shirt beneath, there on Foster's thigh. "His eyes are astonishing," Foster'd said. Too loudly. The boy on the landing above them couldn't have missed it. "Belladonna," she'd said, remembering the sting of the drops, the way the world would be too bright, washed out, men's smiles bleeding light into their light-smeared faces. "Really," he'd said. "Extraordinary." Foster had laid his straw hat to one side, but still wore the mildly ridiculous seersucker jacket he favored. His eyes closed as one hand reached up to grip the upright back of the chair. His other hand floated behind the boy's head. Foster hissed; the boy shifted; Foster's undone belt buckle clanked. "He needs some food," Foster had said, as the boy prowled Foster's room. Picked up a pillow from the bed, and put it back. "Moll? Could you - " "I could see Bruno about a plate, perhaps," she'd said. And, halfway down the stairs, had thought to come back to ask whether coffee, or tea - She touched her lips as Foster groaned, and came. The boy stood, wiping his mouth, and Foster handed him a banknote he'd been holding screwd up in one hand. The boy grinned at Moll on his way out the door. Foster stood by the window, buckling his belt. He did not turn around. He sighed. "I had to know," he said. :: the sidewalks of old New York --n. :: /~nickurfe/ http://www.ruthiesclub.com/ nickurfe@yahoo.com This story may be freely circulated by anyone, anytime, anywhere. .