There's the constant clatter of metal—tongs against the grill, the thunk of a cleaver. A radio blares low Arabic pop or an old-school hip hop beat. The vendor shouts "Next!" over the hiss of steam and traffic horns. Cabs honk, conversations murmur, and someone laughs in a language you don't know. The city breathes around you—but at the cart, everything narrows to food, heat, and that first bite.
But it felt silent.
Indeed, it echoed—
Justin watched her sip her tea and wipe her lips with a napkin.
He gulped, glared down, and played with the sweat sliding down his cold cup.
"It's delicious," he said, raising an eyebrow and chuckling to himself.
"It is?" he added, pinching his index finger, gulping the tea completely, and nodding a thank you to the waiter who dropped off their order.
Then the scent hits you before you even see it.
Spiced chicken—cumin, coriander, paprika—crackling in oil.
A tang of garlic from the white sauce, smoky char from the gyro meat.
There's a whisper of vinegar from the pickled jalapeños,
and the faintest ghost of toasted pita that makes your stomach growl no matter how full you are.
Justin smiled and rubbed his palms in exaggerated excitement.
He dug into the combo plate—spiced rice soaking up rich, marinated juices.
The meat was tender and hot, kissed by the grill.
A swirl of creamy white sauce and sharp red chili lit up his mouth.
It was greasy, spicy, savory—a chaotic balance that somehow tasted like home after a long day.
His eyes closed, letting his taste buds chase the heat
while his brain tried to stay sane and keep his thoughts in check.
"You love this kind of food."
Justin halted, like he just noticed—
She hadn't touched her plate.
His tongue licked the sauce stain at the corner of his lips,
his fingers wiping off on his pants without thought.
"Shit," he muttered, realizing—
He rented these.
His widened eyes narrowed when irritation crept in—
She had ordered the food just to be reserved.
"No need, the bill is on me," he said, his thumb pointing at himself,
his lips holding a forced grin.
All for her spare glance—
All to get something—anything.
Like oblivious to his frustration, she smiled.
And he felt the rising urge to slap the smugness off her face.
"I can afford it," she replied, her smile straining,
holding her fixed nails like armor.
Justin remembered how she used to smile like that as a kid—
like it hurt.
Back in fourth grade, when they were assigned a task to mock-fight.
She changed.
She was different.
Sister?
"You look old."
"Me?"
"Yes. You look hairy, ugly, and tacky.
And a little... unfurnished mistake."
"…And here I thought I was looking seventeen."
There was silence—
Then she burst into giggles.
First muffled, then loud,
And in between, she snorted like she always did.
Her hand flew up to her mouth like it could hide how her slim nose spread
or how ridiculous she sounded.
It was cute.
Justin laughed.
Then chuckled.
Then lost it—
Until he choked.
"Justin?"
"I'm fine... I'm—"
He coughed hard enough to bring sweat, snot, and tears.
"Eww, bro…"
The neighbor at the next table handed him water while his sister?
She just busied herself sanitizing her hands again, wiping them clean like he wasn't there.
"I got to go."
Her sudden announcement made Justin halt,
his face still flushed from the coughing fit.
A pat on the back.
A napkin handed over.
A glass of water.
But she paid the bill and walked away—no goodbye.
Like an investment from twelve years ago,
like the orphanage,
where she left—
Slipped away,
Leaving behind a boy—
Alone.
Hurt.
Vexed by her actions.
But scared.
"Sister?"
The boy was scared.
Justin ran out,
his rented clothes worn,
his eyes bloodshot.
He stood in the spiral streets, heart pounding.
"EFE?!"
---
New York is too bright and too fast.
Sometimes neon signs of Times Square blur when he blinks—
Like a migraine waiting to happen.
He prefers the side streets—
The in-between places where the light doesn't always reach.
Cracked sidewalks. Flickering streetlamps.
Shadows cast long by fire escapes like ribs over brick walls.
His world is tinted by insomnia—
The gray-blue haze of dawn through his studio window,
the dull glow of the bodega freezer,
the red wash of taillights caught in the rain.
He watches people rush, kiss, fight, vanish—
And thinks about how many stories end mid-step here.
Like a warning.
The subway's scream is nails down the spine.
Sirens knot his stomach.
He's grown skilled at tuning out the noise—
But sometimes, when he's alone, it rushes in:
A breakup argument,
A baby crying,
A guy begging for change while another laughs too loud into a Bluetooth headset.
The wind between buildings whispers like a warning.
At night,
He can smell the city's rot under the perfume.
The trash.
The piss in alleyways.
The cold metal of subway poles.
But there are good smells, too—
Cold noodles.
Late-night tacos that taste better drunk…
And sometimes… women.
---
"Aah… does he talk this much?"
The other shrugged and they stared at their best friend.
The party was in full swing.
The DJ had control.
Women moved like waves—
The crimes happened in the dark
And the denied were veiled.
Justin drank.
He moved.
He puked.
His yuck lips drifted toward a smack,
He laughed for no reason,
Then cried,
Clutching his hair in desperation.
"He's a mess."
Darius nodded.
They needed to get this mad man out before the bar got shut down—
They couldn't afford that.
Yet the ringing tone of the call faded beneath the loud upbeat.
No matter how loud it's screamed,
When remembered—
It was already long to the cold.