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(Prompt Photo by Matthew Lejune on Unsplash.com)

If she could peak over the building in front of her, she would be looking at the "twin" towers. They were finished a year before she got there, and as far as she's concerned they're ugly as sin. And maybe, just maybe, there's a little jealousy that they got here before she did.

They got here when it was still a nice place to live. New York isn't a nice place anymore, hasn't been since nineteen-seventy-three.

It's dangerous now, especially in the Bronx. Fires surround them, going off one by one like fireworks left to fizz away. Not enough police, the people next to her had whispered angrily on the subway. The person across was too busy getting mugged to talk.

It's dirty too. The street she's on - in Manhattan, twenty minutes from Time Square - is dingy. The red brick buildings on either side are covered with grime, the traffic-filled streets stink of exhaust, the women and men (boys) walking the sidewalk are ready to head into an alley at the tip of a hat.

She's skipping down the street when she sees it. She's wearing taller heels than she normally would, and a scandalous pair of shorts. When she'd left the house today she knew she'd lose her job - they'd been laying off people for months, and the signs pointed to her being next.

And she has always believed that when the world burns, you should teach the devil to tapdance.

The It she sees is a little chair pulled up to a short, wooden desk; it faces onto the street. A typewriter is perched on top, and a man is sitting behind it. Even though it's April, warm enough for rolled up sleeves, he's bundled up in a coat two sizes too small.

The most surprising part though, is the sign in front.

"You're a 'poet for hire'?" She asks, coming to a stop.

He nods at her, wearily. He's about her age, and probably comes from Washington Heights. Maybe he has an accent, she likes accents.

"Huh. That's a neat job." She keeps talking. "I just got fired from mine. Want to guess what it was?"

"No." His answer is brief. He bends his head back down and begins experimentally hitting keys.

But it's been a long day, longer year, and she wants to feel less alone. So she doesn't leave. "Pretty girl like me, you're not curious at all?"

Another head shake. "I'm not interested."

"What, I'm not pretty?" Putting her hands on either side of his typewriter, she sinks until her knees are touching the ground and she's at eye height with him.

He doesn't meet her eyes, still focused on whatever he's writing. Unexpectedly, he reaches up and clangs the roller back to the left, less than an inch away her nose. She flinches, has to put one hand behind herself to stay upright.

"Didn't say that." He responds, still monotone.

"For a poet, you really don't have a way with words." It's supposed to be teasing, but it comes out frustrated.

"Are you planning to buy?" It's said in an even tone, face still turned down. But the tension in his shoulders, the way that they're drawn up tight, shows he's almost reached his limit.

"He does speak. A whole sentence, just for me." Her hand goes to her purse, rummaging for money. "I'll buy a poem."

He glances up, surprised. "For who?"

"What do you mean, who?"

"The poem has to be for someone." He points at a piece of paper taped to his typewriter. Love poems two dollars.

She's found the crumpled bills, but she pauses, considering.

"Okay. Write it for yourself." It seems like a fair compromise, and she holds out the money. But he doesn't take it. He's too busy staring at her, finally looking her full in the face. His eyes are richer than she'd expected.

"What?" He says. His face is doing an adorable confused scrunch.

She tries her best cheeky grin. "Yeah, yourself."

"I'd have nothing to write."

His eyes are intense.

The roller on his typewriter has floated halfway across the machine again, and she battles the impulse to slam it back.

"What, you've never made love to yourself?"

That earns her a Look. But it doesn't make her feel like he's staring into her soul, so that's okay.

"Can I sit with you, then?"

"What?" He protests, but she's already sprawled on the curb, feet laying in the traffic lane.

"Well, if it's going to take you a while to think anything up, I guess I'll just have to wait."

"I have other customers."

The street is empty of pedestrians, apart from the walkers. Not a single poetically inclined soul. She doesn't point that out.

"Look after them first. It's not like I have a job to get back to." The last part comes out tinged with bitterness. The memory of her boss reaching across the table to squeeze her hand is still fresh. It was the type of government job that was supposed to be reliable. And then it was gone, like every other good thing in this city.

"You'll scare people off," He insists. He's absent-mindedly rocking his foot on and off. "You from Bowery?"

"Bronx." She pronounces it with a New York accent, and that makes her absurdly proud for a moment. Then she says the rest. "Lost my job and figured I'd take a Subway to Manhattan." The silence hangs in the air for a moment, and she wants to fill it. "My apartment building burned down last week, too. Can barely stand being in the borough anymore. So I came here."

"I'm sorry." She hadn't expected him to sound like he cares. He doesn't even know her.

"You should be." She tries to lighten the mood, but he's looking at her like she said her mother died. "Not like I lost anything irreplaceable. Not a big deal." Her tone becomes businesslike again. "Now, why don't you want me here?"

He squirms in his chair. "You're about one fake fur coat away from a prostitute."

It almost makes her laugh. The uncomfortable expression on his face, the way his gaze is transfixed on the ground in front of him. It reminds her of her grandmother.

"That's not true." Looking around her, she lowers her voice. "My eyes aren't wide enough. Or dead enough, depending on your type." She pitches higher again. "Got that poem started yet?"

"No."

"Hey, would you look at that?" She points at a man on the opposite sidewalk. "Hurrying down the street with flowers. Just out of one of those 'adult shops', and off to woo his wife."

"He could've missed the anniversary." He suggests.

"No, cheating," she replies. "His tie's loose, his fly's undone, and his face is bright red. Bastard."

He lets out a low whistle. "Pretty visceral dislike."

"That's a fifty-cent word." She fumbles through her coat and pulls out a lighter and her last cigarette. "If I'd stayed home I'd be married to someone one like him. My ol' daddy would make sure of it. Can't think of anything worse."

The chair creaks as he shifts back and forth. "You're one of those feminists?"

"Geez, don't tell me you're 'one of those'. It's seventy-four, not sixty-four. Molly can sing with the band all day now." She carefully cups her hand against her cigarette as she brings the bic to it. She takes a long inhale, crinkles her nostrils against the bitter smell. The rough paper is comforting against her fingers. "Look, it's not feminism, I just don't want that. Power to you if you do, I guess."

She blows out a puff of smoke.

There's a silence then, the cigarette in her mouth slowly burning down. The sound of the typewriter's keys clacking. Finally, just as she's thrown the butt on the ground, he speaks again.

"I'm not. One of those." The words are forced into the air, he's fiddling with his cuff. He looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn't. Instead, he goes back to writing.

Another awkward silence. Then-

"I look after my mom. She never - she didn't want to see me with engine grease on my fingers. So I figured I'd try ink instead." His voice is hurried, some strange agitation pulling at each word and almost cutting them off. "I only make twenty, maybe twenty-five, bucks a day. So now I go work at the garage while my mom's asleep. Two hours of sleep a night."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Why'd you come?" He asks instead of answering. She can feel him looking, trying to figure her out. It irks her, like she's been tricked into sharing confidences. Why does everything need an explanation?

"Mom died, dad sucked. Wanted to be an screenwriter, figured I'd try my luck." It's flippant, a harsh twang running through her words. "Thought I'd be okay at it, I wasn't."

"What changed?" His voice is softer, the nervousness ironed out.

"Nothing. Just - it's like I'm not real unless I'm talking. Otherwise, it's like - like I'm hollow." The memory of driving into the city and thinking that she would never be alone again is strong enough that she starts reaching into her pocket for a cigarette. "And I'd just - I'd leave work, and go home, and sit in front of an old typewriter. And I couldn't imagine anything more lonely."

"Writing? Lonely?" He responds.

He's looking at her like she's a mystery he wants to unravel. It should make her flattered, but instead it makes her so scared she aches. Her hand is still inside her coat, and she knows that there are no cigarettes left - she can see the butt on the street - but she's grasping for something.

"I couldn't write love. I'd put it all down, and they were stick figures snapping. Never making love, just doing something that rhymes with 'firetruck' and is a little more modern. It was a failure. I was a failure." Her voice has crescendoed until she's almost shouting, and she lowers it again. Anger - and something like fear - is thrumming through her. She pulls her hand out of her pocket. "Is that what you wanted, some big emotional speech? Wanted to see me play the disillusioned, small-town girl? Well, I won't. That isn't me. It isn't."

He's still staring, eyes trained so intently on her she has to fight not to break the gaze. The silence is thick enough that it chokes her, crawling down her throat until she feels sick. And then he opens his mouth.

"'Making love.' You've used that twice."

"I have?" That throws her off, and suddenly she's the one staring.

"Definitely not modern."

His face is impassive. Maybe he's not joking, maybe this will lead into some other heartfelt confession. But she pretends he's holding out an olive branch. She gives him an exaggerated headshake.

"Not quite, no. You must be a horrible influence."

And then there's a grin peaking out on his face, and she can feel herself deflating, the tension draining from her. He's looking at her like a person again, not like some thing he can fix, that could fix him.

"And he can smile." It grows wider.

He returns to typing, the dying sunlight catching his watchface and burning her retinas. She looks a little closer at the time, and lets out a soft curse. "Is the poem done?"

"Not quite."

"You'll have to finish it some other time." Groaning a little, her fingers hooking around the edge of his desk, she pulls herself up. The lighter falls off of her lap, and she leaves it lying in the street. "Forgot that I need to be home before six. My friend worries. I'm staying at her apartment until I find a new one." She raises her arm in farewell. "Catch you sometime."

"You could come back tomorrow. I mean, if you have a second. I mean, I need to finish that poem for you." The words seem to erupt from his mouth, the restlessness back.

She fumbles with her words. The curve to his lips, the gentle tapping as his fingers ghost over the typewriter. Suddenly she's sure she wants to read that poem. "Yeah? I'd like that. Tomorrow, then."

She's ten feet away when it occurs to her, and suddenly she's turning on her heel and cupping her hands around her mouth to yell.

"It's - uh - I'm Judy." A thin woman, half-asleep against laundromat, gives her a dirty look. He's also looking at her, his head turned like he's straining to hear. She feels ridiculous. "I never said."

"I'm Matteo." He yells it back, his - Matteo's - face lit up. She smiles awkwardly, then turns away again.

She doesn't skip away. She walks.