The big-tittie girl first came between me and Danny in early February. On the past Christmas eve, I had worn just a pullover, and the following December days found me lolligaging the warm streets with a tall can of Budweiser, not a fleck of snow to be seen amid the discarded trees. Now in early February, the spring seemed to be beating winter completely, prematurely ejaculating sun-stroked streets, long afternoons and the largest pair of breasts I or Daniel had ever seen, tightly held in a white ribbed T-shirt. We both perched our necks from our sidewalk cafe, seats and began to size up. She was no more than a block away.
I personally objected to Danny's immediate moniker of "big-tittie girl." It was unimaginative. It didn't do her justice. It vulgarized a girl who really was the holder of something very unique. She was an oddity, a two-headed goat, a bearded woman, but her deformations were beautiful. She herself had a beautiful face set in dark freckled complexion, and her frame was relatively thin. But her breasts must have been beyond cup Q, large and round enough to fill salad bowls. The strain on her must have been enormous.
I stood up from the caf‚ chair, the street was beautiful with its sun rays coolly warming us. People milled and shopped. I caught my reflection in the restaurant's window. I needed a haircut, but my jumpsuit made up for any drawbacks. It was dark and slick, not a week old. She walked with some sort of purpose, as if when she arrived home, she would lean against her heavy bolted urban door and let out a sigh of relief. Perhaps she would place her groceries on the table, walk to the bathroom, lean over, dropping her gorgeous moons to a wonderful hang over the bathtub, and let the warm water run. Man, how I wanted to see that! I wanted to watch her arch her back, slowly wiggle that T-shirt over her head, shaking her hair in a slow motion as the orbs relaxed without any constriction.
I felt the familiar burn in my esophagus, the urge to turn away, hide and go home, to not make the effort and simply masturbate. I also felt the primal need to jump on her, to touch her and do all the things I so desperately wanted to. She stayed with her head slightly down. I distinctly felt that she was trying to ignore me. She seemed to sense me, to know what I was all about, to despise it and think me cheap.
"Miss, I know that men probably come to you every day with manifestations of their love for you and protestations that they are the one you should be with, but I'm not trying to tell you any of that. Listen, I know this is weird and I know your parents probably told you to never talk to strangers on the street, but I have to stop you, even if it's only to say this to you just this once. I really, really think that you should go out with me."
For the first time she stopped her determined fast pace beside me, and looked up into my face. "I don't think so," she said. There was no welcome in her face. She looked like she was from the Northeast, maybe Westchester or Long Island. Connecticut maybe. She had money, had probably gone to a big state school like Michigan or Wisconsin. After getting a degree in poli-sci or English, she was now living in Manhattan, most likely with assistance from her father, who was no doubt a pussy-whipped dentist. She probably knew how to ski and found the subway confusing, own a cellular phone and only knew or had experience with people exactly like herself.
"Listen, you're right not to think so. We shouldn't go out. Going out is a bad thing, I try not to do it with anyone I like. I mean, what is going out? What would we do? ou would spend time at your house, trying to get ready, wondering about this guy you met on the street and then we'd go somewhere, and spend astronomical New York prices on something not worth it at all, only to have our most important task of getting to know each other drowned out by wack music and the chatter of fake people. Look, what I'm saying to you now is that we are two people in a very large city who should just get to know each other. What's wrong with that? We owe it to each other." I found myself convincing. There was still nothing in her. She had very white tennis shoes on. She moved them faster on the concrete, turning her head away as if she crouched a phone on her opposite shoulder. She swung her large leather bag straps on the shoulder near me closer together, as if I now would see no opening or reason to continue.
"Excuse me, ma'am, is this man bothering you? You have to understand, he has a condition, it's quite serious." Danny fell in step along her other side, not missing a beat. Yeah, I know he only looks a little weird but...if you don't go out with him he might rocket into a downward spiral of self-hate and degradation and, you know, as his friend I just don't think I can go through that again."
I kept my pace just a little bit out of her view, and Danny worked his magic. We were a wonderful team.
"Why don't you just give him your fucking number!" Danny sprays out in an uncalled-for blast of rage. With this she jumps, her tennis shoes beat harder and she yelps, "Fuck off!"
We're at an intersection now, the light is flashing "Don't Walk", Don't Walk" and Danny gives me a little look, and I don't even nod, I probably only move my bottom jaw out a tiny bit, but we've been doing this so long that Danny knows immediately that I have her wallet and it's his turn to move.
"Ma'am, have you seen my friend?"
"Leave me alone!"
"Miss, I think he's gone, he might have took something from you. He's done that before."
I've fallen into a smooth backpedal and disappeared among the scaffolding and the crowds before she has a chance to look for me, but she doesn't care. She's almost running now, this little street pickup has turned into something more like an incident, something she'll tell friends about when she gets perspective and she sinks into that bath at home. "God," she'll say, "you won't believe what happened today. These two fucking assholes-" but she doesn't know the end of the story yet.
I recline in the vinyl cushions of my car seat, there's nothing in her wallet. Maybe a hundred dollars, some credit cards. Worthless to me. My car has a wonderful lemony smell, almost as tart as the real thing. The windows aren't streaked or speckled or dusty, they're almost invisible they're so clean. The low winter sun drops a harmless warmth on my lap as I take a left onto the street Danny and the girl are on. I can picture the drama in my mind.
Danny will tell her that he's sure I took something, to which she might have any number of reactions. She might actually look in her bag, and see a missing wallet, in which case Danny will play one of his many roles and surely screw with her head some more. Most likely she won't look at all. She'll think he's the one who's conning her, a red light will flash when he uses the words "your purse" in a sentence and she'll cling to the bag even harder. What she really wants to do is get away from this annoying street encounter that's taken no more than a block. He'll let her go with minor protest, I'll pick him up in the car, we may go for a bite to eat or a drink. It's not a big deal. When she does get home and puts those groceries on the table and starts that bath and realizes she's been robbed, she won't have a clue what hit her. The whole time we were with her she was trying her hardest not to notice me. True, maybe she remembers my face vaguely or the jumpsuit I was wearing, but it's pointless. I'm just another face in the crowd. We were truly two people in a very large city who should have gotten to know each other. I know I owed it to her.