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14 February 2009 @ 09:00 am
Theatrical Muse: Week 270: Question 270  
Name: Dr. Sid Hammerback

Fandom: CSI: New York

Word Count: 949


Thirteen.


“Roses!” the boy cajoled from the cracked pavement corner, his eyes glittering and hopeful, a slightly forced expression because the basket of flowers was still full and the rush hour pathway traffic was rushing past him, purposefully unaware of his presence. Sid watched all this while poised on a tiny apartment balcony, seated at a tiny wrought iron table, the metalwork intricately latticed into vines of flowers that ran down its legs and onto the table feet. The effects of the previous night’s ministrations and tribulations wore at him suddenly, so removing his glasses, the man rubbed open palmed hands at his eyes, guarding them momentarily from the bright morning sunshine, the shining cityscape down below. Guarded only by a pair of boxer shorts and a long cotton nightrobe, he drew the thin covering around himself and bespectacled himself once more before turning inside to shower and dress, becoming ready to face the day, at last.

While a relatively beautiful location, nonetheless, as he entered the inner sanctum of the home, the ME could still hear all the morning noises outside, rushing cars and hawking voices, the boy slightly evident, his wall muted cries warbling above everything else. Ironically, himself, perhaps the only man listening to the child at that moment, had not really had any intention of leaving until the dull thud in his head wore off, and he had had something to eat. Something preferably of the breakfast kind, fried and lightly garnished, on toast. Still slightly unfamiliar with his surroundings, Sid turned around slowly, examining the living room and the kitchen that was arranged close by, smiling when a chorus of sleepy cries came from down a short hallway.

“Siiiiiid.” came the first summons, a rich accented voice, full of rumble, but cleanly exacted and demanding all the same. Yara, twenty three, Brazilian.

The second voice burst into being shortly after this, though while saying the same thing, it was higher, the whining more earnest and an entirely different kind of captivating, one word harkening to an offered but entirely fake, childlike innocence. Chiyoe, twenty two, Japanese.

“Come on Sid, we’re getting bored.”

The last voice occurred behind him as his hand was taken and pulled slightly backwards, drawing him back to bed, back to inner desires and rampant actions of the most revelling and revealing kind. Audrey, twenty five, British, harsh Londoner words causing his will for food to melt, making him succumb to the wills and womanly succour of the three visiting models, their delights and their actions, their reactions even, almost too much to bear.

At some point Sid did shower, did dress and did make his way down a winding set of stairs to the front apartment entrance on an errand for milk, all used up, for eggs, nonexistent, and for other necessary items that had no opinion and did not frown on his female indulgences. The rose selling boy sat on an upturned plastic crate outside the deli, lips firmly attached to a straw inserted into a flavoured milk carton, suckling it as if it were his life’s blood, earnestly trying to get every drop that remained inside the cardboard drink housing.

Clean shaven and all his shopping in a bag, as he left the shop the man crouched down in front of the boy, brushing a free finger against his own nose, a sign of promised confidentiality between them, the need from which might arise from any future talking. Eyes flickering between the child, who probably, by his general bodily appearance, was around fourteen or so, the Medical Examiner grinned impishly, aware of an unspoken secret, acutely so.

“I noticed the rose bushes in that garden across the street seem a bit naked.” he said, nodding towards the indicated place where several such plants grew, largely denuded of blooms. The basket he had seen earlier was hidden away behind the boy now, covered by a coat, supposedly to hide what was left. Slipping a ten dollar note and a couple of dollar coins out of his wallet, Sid pushed them into the rose seller’s hand, winking and smiling, all charm and confidence, as was his usual manner.

“You give me the rest of the evidence and I promise it will disappear.” the man said, and had the roses hastily thrust into his hand as the owner of the said bushes emerged from his home, coming out the front door to suddenly stand stock still on his welcome mat. He could see that much.

There was something about that Valentine’s Day, where it was the whispered “Thanks” as the boy fled, or his own feet as they pounded down the street back towards his momentary accommodation, shopping bag swinging, thorns pressing sharply against buzzing fingertips. Hoping the eggs wouldn’t break, he saw briefly the face of the man the roses had been snatched from, but was too quick, too wildly mad with the moment, to really care or notice.

Much later, with the three women, over breakfast he counted out the roses and recounted his tale to much amused giggling and sly comments about his physique and his age. Thirteen roses in all, four per girl and one left over, another reinforcement to the fact that, some years ago, the flowers would not have been split up, they simply would have been given to one girl and one girl alone. This thought was let go, simply because of the day it was, because of the situation he was in, because all in all, there he was in his own future, taking a mild reprieve from all his worries and his absences, willingly giving away thirteen roses without any consequences, at all.
 
 
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