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"'But you can never truly love it till you can love its alleys too,'" she says, quoting Algren while smoking in the cold. She watches her breath catch fire while her frail bones tremble without notice. It's Christmas time. The streets are filled with wreaths, lights, and illusions of magic but the alley doesn't promise Maggie anything. The snow is grey, and the rats are out. She laughs at the crowd of people in line for church as she stares at her own sanctuary.
Maggie and Jack smoke cigarettes in the alley together and note how much they have in common: their interest in punk music, their distaste for college students, their obligations as an oldest child with a single parent. They both know the money they spent for cigarettes should have gone toward tonight's dinner but they would rather have an empty stomach than an itch that goes unscratched.
Maggie washed dishes all day in order to earn her pay. Her prune hands stared at her waiting for an apology. The kitchen stove encouraged the customers to talk louder and the alcohol in their veins caused them all to shout. She refused to think about dirty dishes, despising the cracks in the glass and the yellow tint each dish had acquired over the years. She refused to respond to the men she works with or listen to them talk about girls who give bad blow jobs. She scrubbed dishes, hoping to wash away a bit of the numbness that soaks into her skin.
Back in the alley, she thinks about what it means to learn from the lines of a book and words unspoken. Reality has taught both Maggie and Jack how the government really works, how the police force deals with crime, and how the church takes away her mother's money. Jack lives at home too, working. They call each other at night, when their siblings have been put to bed and the city gets quiet. Outside, they only hear the sound of teeth chattering. Such a monotonous life calls them to cling to each other for excitement.
After their cigarette, Maggie sleeps over at Jack's house. The basement hides them, as they take off their winter jackets and scarves and begin to sweat. She's weak from lack of food and tired from lack of sleep, but somehow her weakness turns to anger. Her anger manifests itself in her mom, her younger sister, and her coworkers but not Jack. She wonders if the absence of any anger means love.
Maggie thinks it's funny how both she and Jack work dull jobs for money when sex is free and way more enjoyable. She notices how sex is not dirty; it's just innately private. Everyone spares the details. No one wants to hear about how unavailable Jack's eyes are after sex or how they never feel self-conscious even with the light on. Jack and Maggie's life together is a secret. All lovers' lives are. It seems that the line between art and dirtiness exists in every culture.
She screams at night; he pulls out.
"Wait," he whispers.
"What?"
"The condom broke. It's fine though."
He kisses her while she pulls away. "The condom broke?"
"Don't worry. It's fine. I pulled out."
She's never been one to talk while having sex. Even now, her speech is broken, saying little in the situation. Nodding, she turns to her side. Nothing to worry about, and she believes it. So much to worry about but not this.
