Junk Love.

twenty-six.

Mel shoulders her guitar case. Carter carries a duffle bag filled with their belongings. Together they face the wilds of the streets again. His spirit swells shadowy crevices where the bad things used to lurk. Still, roaming grungy back allies feels danker now compared to candlelight and leftover pizza evenings she'd grown used to.

Why did he fuck it up so badly? The answer is simple really. They're users in every conceivable way. Carter thought of Mel before he pressed the plunger, second guessed himself, but not even an elixir offered by angels could satiate his craving.

"What are you thinking about?"

They've walked nearly a mile. Marching toward the slums and old church they'd first met at. Carter's voice sends her tumbling from her thoughts, literally, when she trips over a raised edge on the sidewalk.

"I'm not really sure." Mel confesses, narrowing her lips into a thin grimace.

"I don't believe you."

A sideways glance unbalances her stride and she bumps against him. "I know why you did it. I would have done it too." Mel sighs. "I'm not mad at you anymore."

"But you're still not happy with me."

"I wasn't happy at Enzo's."

"You weren't?"

"Not really."

She sucks in a deep breath of crisp air. Storm clouds and smog choke the sky ghastly grey, shriveled up as her veins. This is where she belongs with the lifeblood of the city pulsing beneath her soles.

"I almost ran away a couple nights." Mel says.

"What stopped you?"

"You didn't notice?"

Carter shakes his head, adjusting the strap of the duffle higher on his shoulder.

"I'd trace the tattoo on your back until I forgot about how much I hated it there."

"I wish you would have told me."

"Would it have made a difference?" Mel shrugs. "It was the best place for us at the time. Probably still is. I don't know what I want anymore."

"Doesn't help I had to go and make us fugitives."

She scoffs. "Like it or not babe we've always been fugitives."

The wind chaps their faces red and they hunker down against the weather. Mid-November usually has Mel scrambling for any way to keep warm until the break of Spring.

Morning creeps into afternoon and the temperature drops dramatically. Whenever they talk a foul breeze swoops in like a thief snatching words from dry mouths and frosty throats. A consequential hush blankets their almost somber passage down the road. Cold leeches into them sucking the hopefulness of earlier into a husk.

After hours of steady travel, they leave the hustle of town square wandering into the mouth of an industrial neighborhood accented by antique shops and sturdy oak trees. This section on the way to church always makes Mel's skin crawl.

Street urchins like herself frequent this area but she's far from the most threatening. At least Carter is built like a boulder. No one pays him as much trouble as they would a little waif girl. They continue literally on the wrong side of the tracks, hopping over iron railroad bars separating the slums from the city.

Fewer cars whip past the tracks now. Blinking red lights signaling on the railroad posts resemble a bad omen. Turn back. Turn back. When she'd had a set destination, with her tent pitched in the park, Mel didn't feel as vulnerable and exposed as she does now.

Scraps of trash tumble down barren streets and graffiti art leers from mangled bridges looming over their heads. The houses are carbon copies of each other. Sunken in with messy yards trashed by scrap metal and thistles. Either the front doors are boarded up or the blinds are drawn tight. They have nowhere to run if the monsters dredge themselves from the pits.

At first the noise is haunting in its unexpectedness -- music. A tragic jazzy number swelling through the slums like a ferry horn promising a trip home. Mel has never heard someone play a trumpet as softly and beautifully as the man standing on the corner.

He plays in front of a dilapidated shop selling old bikes for parts. Despite the scraps around him, and bunches of dirty paper tumbling at his feet, the scene is picturesque.

Both Carter and Mel skid to a stop to listen intently. The trumpet player is unaware of them his wrinkled eyes are folded shut. Swaying to music, Mel closes her eyes too. Only coming awake again when Carter nudges her to slip the guitar case from her stiff shoulder.

"What are you doing?"

Holding both her hands he whispers, "Dance with me."

Lacing her fingers through Carter's, Mel trembles with cold and delight. His palms are like ice but his breath fans warm across her numbed face. Tilting her head up she matches his gaze as they spin in slow circles.

Mel's breath hitches, escaping in a shuddering gasp when he loops one arm around her waist his fingertips sneaking under her jacket. Tracing slow circles on the small of her back, he dips his head to hide his face against the crook of her neck. With both arms wrapped around his broad shoulders Mel consumes him as much as he her. For a moment they're timeless.

☯