More Than a Hotline Fling

-19-

Juneau's POV

January in New York City was... a cold and bitter witch's titty.

And yet, people still jogged outside.

Another example huffed by me, a middle-aged man with steam rising off his black winter hat. His red skin was wrenched up and wrinkled. With labored breaths, his open mouth puffed out white steam train breaths with even "Haaa" sounds. By his sluggish, shuffling steps, he ran on fumes. His limp fingers swung across his chest elbows tucked in T-Rex arms.

Good for him, I guess.

The weight of Damian bringing me to identify Édgar Santino carried me here to work with quicker steps. Face-to-glass with the man who stabbed me, the hairs on the back of my neck prickled to attention. A cold trickle dripped down my spine and my pulse throbbed under my faint scar looking at Santino. Observing Damian elicited stronger reactions from me.

Damian's hardened, detached, professional demeanor he projected was present at first glance behind the one-way mirror. But his gritted teeth, the fire burning in his eyes, even the way his heels dug into the floors drew my attention.

Damian argued evil didn't discriminate but I believed gray smeared in between black and white. Putting myself in other's shoes wasn't a means to understand another person's perspective but grounded my own actions and behavior.

Not rocket science, treating others how you want to be treated. Putting out some good karma hoping it bounces back.

Before Damian's response, that Santino turned young, innocent women into a cash commodity, I wondered how he'd gotten himself into that situation. Édgar looked my age. My abandoned psychology degree prodded me to find a deeper rooted source of trauma or strife in his life.

Not afforded the luxury of probing, my brain failed at processing the steps leading up to his arrest. What prompted him to be so disconnected that his eyes averted and his hand closed cage doors and secured a lock remained a mystery. With no tangible theory, I assumed the reasons fell under Damian's work dealing with the darker parts of the city, the hard edges of humanity where the rules of decent treatment of other humans didn't apply.

Makes me even more proud of how he's handling his work stress.

I was relieved for the diversion at lunch because the conversation soured my appetite. While I wore three pairs of rose-colored glasses, trying to see the good in every person, part of Damian's work touched the darkest parts of the city, the edges of inhumanity's decent treatment.

And yet... I can't help but feel he's overreacting? I'm nobody, except to Damian.

My fingers clasped my long, wooly, black P-coat around my neck. I tipped my chin down until most of my nose was covered with my red flannel scarf. Numbness had taken over the sensations in my nose and cheeks two blocks back, so I buried them into the damp warmth my breath provided.

Never confused with being able to afford New York fashion, I clomped in my rubber boots on the five-block walk to work. Gray and dreary, the weather matched my somber mood. By the time I walked through AMC's entrance, my lips and cheeks were numb and trembling.

Since the front lobby was jammed with patients, I lifted one of my frosty paws to one of the morning desk attendants. Muffled through my scarf, I called out, "Morning, Jillian."

"Morning Juneau," the older woman smiled behind her square glasses and plonked a clattered stack of clipboards onto the circular white counter. Her knowing smile indicated even though I was ten minutes early, she was too in getting my paperwork prepped.