Diane Gottlieb

Voice of God

I seen this girl last night, a Brooklyn girl, click-clacking down Avenue C. Low-cut top, neon pink. Hair’s pink too. Our eyes did that quick little zap. Thought we mighta had something, but she just raised her head high, thick with attitude. Whatever. No skin off my back. Girl looked good, though. I’m watching her sweet swoosh-swoosh, side to side, when right by the church, the one with the homeless shelter, this bruiser guy comes outta nowhere, grabs her by the wrists. She’s kicking, punching, but he’s stronger. Pulls her toward him. Hard. I can tell she’s scared now, real scared, ‘cause she stops moving—everything ‘cept her eyes. They’re lit like pinballs, bouncing left, right, boom, boom, boom, until they brake at the church doors. She’s gotta know those doors aren’t open. No priest, no prayer, no holy chorus gonna rise up to save her. Neither will the two suits walking by. Or the lady with her scrawny-ass dog, all of ‘em pretending they don’t see. I see. But don’t want to. I can’t. I’m just two more months on parole and not taking any chances. Won’t so much as breathe the wrong way and risk getting sent back upstate. Nope. But then the girl catches me with her Bambi help-me eyes, and I got no choice. “What you doing?” I ask and take a few steps forward. That’s when I notice the tat on his face, a waterfall. He’s got this wild twitch, like some guys from the shelter get from their meds. Makes the tat move, like Niagara crashing. He spins the girl around, flashes a big-ass blade, but I’m not backing down. “Let her go,” I say. “Let her go.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, it all goes silent. Still. The guy’s whole body’s frozen. Even the waterfall. It’s like he’s heard the voice of God or something. There we are, the three of us, standing by the stained glass under a halo of security lights like some twisted nativity scene. Guy looks at me—strange. Like he knows it’s not just me here calling the shots. He laughs, a friggin belly laugh, and drops the blade. Lets the girl go. Walks away. Just like that. The girl, hair all pink, face all red. I bet she wants to cry, but she holds it. Holds it with all the other crazy shit this messed up world weighs down on her bright neon shoulders. There’s no cars passing. No one’s on the street. Just pink girl and me. She holds her crying, and I hold the quiet, the big fat holy quiet.

END

Diane Gottlieb is the editor of Awakenings: Stories of Body & Consciousness, Manna Songs: Stories of Jewish Culture & Heritage, and Grieving Hope. Her writing appears in Brevity, Witness, SmokeLong Quarterly, 2023 Best Microfiction, Florida Review, and River Teeth among many other lovely places. Diane is the Prose/CNF Editor at Emerge Literary Journal and the Special Projects Editor at ELJ Editions. Find her on social @DianeGotAuthor.