So she sat on the curb with the babe in her arms, not sure what to do next. She had the pram on one side and a shiny-white stack of diapers on the other, disposable, enough for maybe two, three days. At least the kid was sleeping now, finally silent, face of an angel, not that puckered-up, screaming-red, snot-covered thing she was holding when the landlord banged on the door.
She took a last drag on her cigarette then stubbed it out on the concrete, sizzling. A few ants shifted their path to avoid the smoke and that was all.
Damn that Dwayne anyway, shifty bastard, saying she could stay here and he’d pay the rent and take care of her while he went about his business, then he had to go get himself thrown in the can.
Next time she hooked up with a man she’d be asking for a lump sum payment, all of it up front, that was all. You just couldn’t count on these guys for more than the occasional pizza congealing in its cardboard box, or if they were feeling flush, a six-pack that they’d drink all of anyway, feet still in their dirty shoes criss-crossed on top of her magazines, her coffee table.
She coughed, tasting nicotine phlegm and shifted the dead-weight of the babe up onto her shoulder, shoving the diapers by the handful into the front of the stroller. She'd have to come back for her other junk later, if she could track down a friend with a car. These flip-flops weren’t going to get her feet very far, but at least they'd get her downtown. There she could look for a girlfriend to shack up with for a night or two, someone to talk with over thick black coffee and smokes long into the evening.