Damaged Hearts. Jan St. Marcus

you change your mind?”

      “About what?”

      “About fucking me. Or a blowjob?”

      “Dude!” I say, a little more forcefully than I intended. “Quit asking me that. I don’t want sex from you. That’s not why I …” I stop. “It’s not about that.”

      “What do you want?” Bran asks, sitting up in the bed and running his hands through his blonde hair.

      “I don’t know. Nothing?” I lick my lips and try to gather my thoughts. No luck.

      “So tell me what’s going on? Please? I don’t get it,” he says with his eyes searching mine.

      I just look at him. I don’t have any answer for him.

      “Why would you help out a complete stranger and invite him into your house, feed him, let him get cleaned up, and sleep in your guest room?”

      I consider this for a moment and then I smile.

      “What’s so funny?” he asks.

      “You were referring to yourself in the third person. It’s always funny when people do that.”

      “Yeah. Glad to be entertaining.” We are both silent for a long moment.

      “You’re not a complete stranger,” I say.

      “No?”

      “No. I’ve seen you around for the past several months. I’ve given you money a bunch of times.”

      “Seven.”

      “Seven what?” I ask, a little surprised and confused.

      “You’ve given me money seven times.”

      “You counted?” I ask. “You never looked up. I thought you didn’t notice me.”

      “I noticed you. I think I always said ‘thank you,’ didn’t I?”

      “Yes, you did.” He was right about that. “So we’re not exactly strangers then, right?”

      “I guess not. Not exactly.” Another long silence. “But that still doesn’t explain this,” he says, gesturing around the room. “Don’t get me wrong, dude. I’m not complaining.” He gives me a nervous laugh. “Definitely not complaining. I just don’t know people who do stuff like this.”

      “Me neither,” I tell him. A wave of fatigue hits me hard, and I lean against the doorjamb for support. I sigh.

      “So where does that leave us?”

      “I guess we can play it by ear, right? I mean it’s not like this place is going to be cramped or anything.” Just then, Sparky walks into the room and jumps up on the bed, nuzzling Bran. “Plus, he likes you. So there’s that.”

      Bran laughs and starts petting Sparky. “Yeah, there’s that,” he says, kissing Sparky on the head and rubbing his ears.

      “So I guess the three of us are roommates until …” I pause, thinking.

      “Until what?”

      “I don’t know. Until whenever.”

      He sighs a big sigh and smiles brightly. “Thank you. I don’t know what to say. I mean, are you sure?”

      “Why not. You’re not going to murder me in my sleep, are you?”

      He shoots me a mischievous smile. “Do you think I would tell you if I were going to do that to you?”

      Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Touché. I guess not. But please don’t.”

      “After seeing you break that guy’s arm tonight, I wouldn’t think it’s something you need to worry about. But I won’t.”

      “I don’t think I actually broke his arm,” I explain. “I think it was probably just a dislocated elbow.”

      “You couldn’t tell the difference by the way that fat guy was screaming. I haven’t heard screaming like that since—” He stops abruptly, and then gets a faraway look in his eyes and looks down.

      “Since when?”

      “Never mind. It was a stupid thing to say.”

      I give him a long look, but he doesn’t look up. Instead, he’s concentrating on petting Sparky. “Okay. Don’t mean to pry.” He still doesn’t look up, and I take the hint. “I’m going to try to get some sleep. Make yourself at home. We can talk more in the morning if you’re up to it. Good night.”

      “Good night,” he says, unable to keep the sadness out of his voice. I turn around and look at him.

      “What’s wrong?” I ask.

      He looks up at me, and his eyes are wet. “Can you tell me something?” he says, his voice choking.

      I walk over and sit on the side of his bed. Sparky looks at me, and then turns his attention back to Bran. “Sure. What’s up?”

      “Why me?” He wipes away a tear. “Why did you help me tonight?”

      “Honestly?”

      “No, I want you to lie to me.”

      He’s joking, but his laugh gets caught in his throat and it’s a more a muffled sob than a laugh.

      “I don’t know. I’ve had a rough time lately. I lost someone close to me, and I’ve been kind of . . . I don’t know.” I take a deep breath. “Can we leave it at that for now?”

      “Yeah.” He goes back to Sparky. As I stand up, he looks up and gives me a slight smile. “Good night.”

      “Have good dreams,” I say. “Oh, leave the door open, please, in case Sparky wants to stop being a traitor and come to bed with me.”

      This gets a laugh from Bran. And Sparky gives me a look like, “Yeah, dude. Let me know how that works out for you.”I leave, closing the door partway. As I make my way back to my room, I notice it’s started raining again.

      3. Brandon

      Living on the streets changes your life. Well, duh. That’s not what I mean. I mean, there are certain things that most people—even you—might take for granted if you’re living somewhere other than alleyways, under cardboard boxes, in bus shelters, and wherever else you can find to keep yourself out of the elements and hopefully somewhat safe. One of those changes, or adaptations, is that you become a light sleeper. I’ve watched some newly homeless guys (and girls) get everything they owned stolen, literally, out from under them as they slept. I don’t want to say that I’m an “old pro” at being homeless because, well, that would be weird. And since when is sleeping on the streets a profession anyway? People joke about sleeping with one eye open and stuff, but it’s not far from the truth if you want to keep your shit from getting stolen—or worse. So it’s really weird for me when I kind of wake up the morning after I met Michelangelo and Sparky, and I’m completely disoriented. The room is completely dark and there’s just a little streak of light from the door, which Michelangelo left cracked open last night, but other than that, I’m in darkness. I roll my head over towards the window and Sparky is there, less than six inches from my face, and he’s smiling at me. Yeah, I know. But you really can tell when a dog is smiling. I can anyway. He sees my eyes open and he scoots his head towards my face and starts licking me—again.

      “Okay. Okay. I’m up,” I tell him as I roll over and stumble towards the bathroom. One of the other things about living on the streets: You develop a short memory. I guess that’s more of a self-defense mechanism, so you don’t dwell on all the shit in your life that sucks ass. I feel kind of weird because my back isn’t aching like it usually does when I first wake up, and my stomach isn’t growling like it always does first thing in the morning