https://www.sledgehammerlit.com/post/takeout-by-suzanne-martinez

Published by Sledgehammer Literary Journal, February 8, 2022. Link is currently not available.

Muffled steps approached as we walked with our pizza and wine down the hill toward the shadowy patch under the highway.

“Check this out, guys,” a husky voice stage-whispered behind us.

Ben and I turned to face three teenagers­ – basketball shorts, arms and legs like sticks, a gun. The kid holding the gun was fidgety, his knuckles scabbed. His eyes were a pale grey. No one was smiling. 

They spread out.

Heart pounding and palms sweating, I embraced our pizza like a shield. It was a rare extravagance. Usually we just bought a couple of slices, but it was our two-year anniversary of living, working, and making art together in our loft in Fort Greene. 

The gun looked fragile, like a toy. I prayed it was.

They probably thought we had more money than they did. Why not even things out a little? Three against two. I thought to offer them the five dollars we had left after buying dinner, but up against a gun, it didn’t seem close to enough. 

“Empty your pockets,” another one said. His voice cracked and his friend punched his shoulder like a big brother would. 

Ben cradled our cheap bottle of wine. 

I searched the deserted street for rescue. Usually someone was out walking a dog or rushing home with groceries.

No one. 

“You don’t to want to do this,” Ben said as he took one step toward them. I watched him reach behind his back and grab the bowie knife he tucked in his waistband against emergencies. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t remember how. 

Ben had come to New York to become an artist from west Texas where everything bit, scratched or stung. He was always ready for anything. I’d come from Ohio to see if I had any talent, hoping to stay. 

It was a Brooklyn stare-down. 

The hum of traffic on the overpass was like a white noise machine. The perfect soundtrack for a takedown, until a tractor-trailer’s airhorn blasted over our heads before rumbling on to Queens. 

Everyone flinched. 

The gun boy’s eyes flickered upward. An almost imperceptible spasm began in his bicep and slowly traveled down his arm to the hand gripping the gun. He squeezed his fingers and the barrel exploded. The crackle ricocheted from the roadway pilings.

Searching Ben’s eyes for pain or a dark stain on his chest to spread, I opened my arms to catch him.

The bullet had passed between us vanishing into the ether, finding neither soft tissue nor hard bone. 

As if snatched by an invisible tornado, the boys took flight like moths into the spring night. Their footsteps hushed by our pounding pulses.

We stumbled home clutching each other, conjoined by our reprieve. 

Huddled together, we gagged on the pizza. Ben’s hand trembled when he poured us glasses of wine, dripping it everywhere. A small red blotch struck the rug spreading to the edge. We dumped the rest down the sink. It cost us too much to drink it.