I consider that for a moment, sitting in silence as I stare through the windshield at the bright red light, waiting for it to change. Once it turns green, I make an unexpected turn, cutting in front of other cars, ignoring the blare of their horns, as I hook a left down a nearby street.
It veers us away from Brooklyn when I take yet another left, setting us back in the direction we just came.
"Are you hungry?" I ask, glancing at Karissa.
She stares at me with disbelief. I can see the fury brewing in her eyes, anger at being disregarded, at having her questions ignored. Any walls I busted down are already being reconstructed, her guard going back up, her armor coming on.
I'm grateful for it, for the moment.
She's probably going to need it.
"You haven't eaten yet today," I say when she doesn't answer.
"Yeah, well, you haven't eaten in like a week."
She's exaggerating, but that doesn't matter, considering I have no intention of eating today, either.
"You must be hungry," I say. "Let's get you something."
She merely shakes her head as she looks back away. I don't talk anymore as I drive north through Manhattan. I sneak glances at the other side of the car whenever traffic stops us, seeing her expression hardening, the anger still there, growing along with her confusion.
She wants so badly to ask where we're going, to demand I tell her where I'm taking her right now.
The deli is in a faded brick building in Hell's Kitchen, wedged between a butcher shop and a little corner grocer, tucked in below a bunch of cluttered old apartments. Metal bars needlessly cover most of the tinted glass windows, a green awning running the length of the building above them, Italian Delicatessen written in block letters along the brick. The actual name of the place isn't on it anymore, hasn't been for decades although the spot it used to hang up top, front and center, is still discolored compared to the area around it.
It doesn't matter, though, not really.
Name or no name, the deli's iconic.
People drive in from upstate for one of their sandwiches, for just a taste of their fresh mozzarella, for a pound of their smoked ham. They can move it to a fucking alley and sell it out of the back of a truck and people will still make the trip.
Everyone thinks it's a sign of the owner's modesty, that he never gave a shit about recognition, that he never bothered to have the sign replaced after renovations years ago. The food's what matters, he tells people when they ask. Who cares what you call it as long as you come eat.
But I know it's not humility. It's regret.
He just doesn't care for the name anymore.
I park the car in the closest spot I can find, just down the street, and feed some change into the meter when I get out. Karissa sits in the car while I do it, like she doesn't plan to come with me, but after a moment she gets out, her expression unchanged.
"We don't have to be here if you don't want to be," I say. "I'll take you home right now."
Part of me hopes she'll agree to that.
I've endured enough shit this week to go through this on top of it.
But no such luck.
"No, we're already here," she says, waving all around her. She has no idea where here is. "We might as well stay."
"If you're certain."
"I am."
I wish like hell I was.
Pressing my hand to her back, I lead her down the street, slowing as I approach the familiar deli. My eyes studiously scan the outside, instinctively searching for anything that changed since I was last around, finding it just as I remember. I reach for the door, tugging it open, the obnoxious bell on top of it jingling as I motion for Karissa to go inside.
It grates on my nerves.
The inside is unassuming—checkered floor, a dozen wooden tables, dim lighting and tall, winding counters. Glass cases take up half the front beside the register, filled with meats and cheese, a cluttered handwritten menu board hanging above it all.
A young guy tends to the lone register, helping those waiting in line, while a man steadily cuts meat a few feet to the side, his back to the customers. He's sturdy, six-feet of solid mass covered in leathery skin, his dark chaotic mess of hair flecked with quite a bit gray.
He moves fluidly, despite his age.
Cool.
Confident.
He owns the place.
He whistles loudly as he works, like an oversize dwarf right out of Snow White, the off-key tune the only noise in the place above the chatter. There are no televisions, no music, no Wi-Fi.
Just a man whistling Johnnie Ray's 'Just Walking in the Rain'.
I haven't heard the song in ages…
Karissa strolls through the deli, taking the place at the back of the line. I join her, wordlessly waiting, the sound of the casual whistling clawing at me. Every second that passes makes my knees weaker, my vision hazier, my head a throbbing mass of pain.
I'm sweating.
Aching.
I shove my hands in my pockets.
This was a bad idea.
A fucking terrible idea.
Neither of us talks during the wait. She reads the menu, scanning the dozens of options as we slowly, steadily move closer to the front.
It only takes a few minutes.
Everyone's cleared out ahead of us, only two or three waiting behind us. The guy working the register looks up. He can't be much older than Karissa, and he seems to only have eyes for her. He grins the kind of grin that says he'd like to take her to dinner then have her for dessert afterward, as he says enthusiastically, "what can I do you for?"
I want to reach across the counter and grab him by the throat, rip his fucking voice box out for even talking to her.
In another place, I might.
At another time, I probably would.
I would gut the boy for having the balls to even think about flirting with her.
But in my state, the pesky little punk could probably take me out.
Pathetic.
Karissa returns his smile before glancing my way, expecting me to answer that question. I stare at the guy working, watching his expression change when he takes note of mine, and clear my throat when I turn to Karissa.
I wipe the sweat from my brow. Here goes nothing. "Order whatever you'd like, sweetheart."
The words aren't even entirely from my lips when silence falls over the deli, the meat slicer pausing mid-stroke, the whistling halting in the middle of a note. I can feel the abrupt shift in the air, coldness sweeping through, like the sun vanished behind some thick clouds, blanketing the world in the kind of shadows where men like me live.
I shiver.
I can feel eyes on me. I don't move from where I'm standing, merely shifting my gaze down the counter. Lips that whistled so exuberantly a second ago are now pressed into a thin line of contempt, like the man's forcing them together to keep from saying something.