S P I D E R M A N - H O M E C O M I N G
"Are you trading government secrets for pizza coupons?"
"If I was-which I'm not, but like if I did would that be bad or...?"
[ HOMECOMING & CIVIL WAR ]
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-July 9, 2015-
"I wasn't trying to steal her dog."
I stopped Maliek's voice from cutting through the trademark sounds of honking cars, tainted music, and yelling pedestrians of the Bronx. My ears caught the creaking of the door, opening and closing with such hostility, the moment he clobbered himself to the roof and badgered me with the overwhelming disbelief in his question.
"Doesn't matter. You can't hijack Ms. Rodriguez's car," The annoyance rolled off his tongue and hit my turned back in waves. "Especially when she was still in it!"
I furrowed my brows and shoed my hand to show my lack of interests on his motives for interrupting my secluded thoughts. "You don't get to pin that break-in on me."
Rather than retreating footsteps like I hoped to hear, stomps shook beside me.
"But you were the one who broke in!" He gawked dramatically.
A grunt emitted deep from within his chest. Guessing by the vexed look thrown my way, it's safe to say he isn't pleased on the route this argument is taking.
"In my defense it was hot yesterday and I thought she was dying."
"Then why'd you take her dog out first?"
I shrugged. "It looked more lively than she did."
At the time, the choice seemed best fit.
Seeing the wrinkled Hispanic women dozing off in the oldest model of a Lincoln Continental, with the windows rolled up and sun beating the metal hood-I was worried. Worried enough to assume the worst when she didn't react to me tapping the window by her side or opening the car door. I couldn't keep presuming she was sleeping as no one with a right state of mind would nap outside in a hundred degree weather. And to be fair that two year old Chihuahua, despite how loud it yaps through the hours of the night, had a better chance of surviving than the ninety year old widow who should've been admitted into a nursing home twenty years ago.
Maliek huffed. His head sunk into the clutches of his hands while the creases denting his forehead and darkened under eyes made him appear mentally drained.
I find it hard to believe when he's ranted for times much longer.
"What are you doing up here anyways?"
"Thinking."
"About?"
"That graffiti over there." He sat next to me, shuffling his full grown body carefully on the ledge. "It's new..." I mumbled. I racked my brain all morning yet still can't recall seeing it yesterday.
