I learned early you don’t eat another man’s dirt.
Not in this city.
Not if you plan on walking it tomorrow.
The alley was narrow enough to hold a secret and long enough to bury one. Rain had passed through an hour ago, left the bricks sweating and the pavement slick like old oil. Streetlamp overhead flickered—weak pulse, tired heart. It painted my shadow tall and crooked against the wall.
She was halfway down the corridor of dark by then.
Didn’t look back.
Heels tapping soft. Measured. Like she’d rehearsed it.
I could’ve called her name. Could’ve let it echo off the brick, let it beg a little. Pride’s a funny thing—it talks loud when you’re alone and goes mute when it’s time to prove itself. I felt it rise in my throat anyway. Bitter. Hot.
I swallowed.
But not that.
There’s a difference between swallowing words and swallowing dirt. Words heal. Dirt settles in your lungs.
I’ve watched men eat it before. Watched them nod and grin while somebody else pressed their face into the ground. They tell themselves it’s strategy. Survival. Temporary.
But dirt multiplies.
You take one mouthful, and before long you’re chewing gravel every morning just to get out of bed. You forget what clean air tastes like.
I’ve done things I don’t talk about. Stood in rooms where the air felt heavy enough to bruise. Bent just enough to keep breathing. But I never knelt long enough for it to stick.
Tonight was close.
The man she chose—he’s got money, reach, hands that don’t shake. He wanted me to step aside quiet. Smile while he erased me. Shake his hand like we were gentlemen and not wolves circling the same scrap of warmth.
All it would’ve taken was one nod.
One concession.
One mouthful.
The light cut across my face and showed me what I’d look like if I agreed.
Smaller.
She slowed near the mouth of the alley. Maybe waiting. Maybe hoping I’d run. That I’d make it messy. Give her something dramatic to carry home.
I stayed where I was.
The city doesn’t reward dignity. It doesn’t hand out medals for restraint. It just keeps moving. Drains fill. Neon hums. Taxis slide past like nothing happened.
But I knew.
Better to go home alone, pride cracked but breathing, than let another man decide how deep you kneel.
She turned the corner.
Gone.
The alley felt wider after that. Or maybe emptier. Hard to tell the difference some nights.
I adjusted my hat. Smoothed the front of my coat. Let the rain-cool air settle into my chest. It stung. That was fine. Pain’s clean compared to shame.
You don’t eat another man’s dirt.
Not for love.
Not for leverage.
Not to stay in a story that isn’t yours anymore.
I stepped out of the alley and into the streetlight like a man who’d lost something.
But not himself.
Memoirs of Madness 