Junk Love.

twenty-one.

A natural warmth resembling fire in a hearth permeates the Italian restaurant during business hours. Even considering the shadowy neutral lighting. The lobby is a frenzy of activity, dizzying, so Mel tucks herself in a corner near the entrance.

She admires a row of paintings replicating settings of Italy, canals of Venice to the cliffs of Greece, accenting the walls uniquely. The stoic atmosphere she enjoyed with Carter is now split with people chattering at the buffet and kids circling around the fish fountain.

"Ma'am." A woman with an accent snaps Mel back to focus. "Would you like to be seated?"

Desperate not to appear as some strung-out junkie she ignores the urge to tug on her sleeve. She even musters her sweetest smile. "I'm looking for Enzo."

Surprisingly, the waitress doesn't act like her request is strange. "He should be helping at the buffet. Would you like me to take you to him?"

"Please."

Although Mel keeps pace with the woman she shrinks in on herself to avoid bumping into people clamoring around steaming pizza trays. Enzo stands at the front refilling the pasta bowls. Somehow, she's convinced his bulbous belly hangs further over his waistband than before.

"Enzo, this lady is here to see you."

He faces them both and his mustache seems to smile with his lips. "Gratzi, Emily, give me a moment to finish this."

Mel's mouth waters at the red sauce sloshing into the bowl. She can't remember the last meal she had that wasn't fish and soy. Once he stirs the noodles in, Enzo faces Mel with a quizzical quirk of his brow. "I remember you from somewhere."

Whether or not that's a good thing is to be determined. Facing him squarely she says, "I was with Carter."

His inviting expression sours, wrinkles of concern deepening across his forehead. "The Butler boy?" He strokes his greying mustache. The comforting smile is gone completely. "Trouble that one."

Refusing to falter in her resolve, Mel straightens her chin. She doesn't expect her to hood to push back from her face. Speaking past the knot in her throat she says, "He told me you could help me."

Mel can practically feel Enzo's eyes crawling under her skin as he catalogs the bruises. "Help you how?"

"I have a name." Again the omen sours in her gut, making her sick, but she utters it anyway. "Marcella. I'm supposed to ask for her."

His responding weary sigh makes her regret asking at all. "My daughter always did have a bleeding heart for strays. Like you and your lad."

"I'm not a stray." Unintentionally, he's struck a chord and her cordial tone goes hollow. "I earn my keep."

Again with the probing gaze. A second sigh proceeds his answer, "I'll send you her way."

☯

Mel hasn't visited such an illustrious neighborhood in a long time. Wildly out of place, she walks down freshly paved sidewalks and past fancy two story homes accented by fine trimmed hedges and lawns. Marcella resides at a duplex ten minutes from the pizzeria.

She braces herself in front of the house, noting the sunny yellow siding and the two Cadillacs in the drive. Fancy, suburban, and utterly unwelcome. Experience has made Mel cynical. Middle-class folks aren't usually inviting to street rats.

Finishing the last drags of her cigarette, she dispels the lump in her throat with smoke. Armored only with the thin fabric of her hood, a paper mask for her swollen face, she marches toward the entrance. Beneath her fist the screen door rattles like a cage.