By Breeny Taghon
It’s the big apple, the crowd was fierce, and a baby is sitting on the side of the street wearing nothing but a diaper and a fedora. He looked slightly annoyed as he rested his head on his hand, his elbow on his knee. Bypassers stared in concern at the fact that this infant was unattended to, and a specific woman walked up toward the child and crouched down. “Hey, little guy, where’s your mommy and daddy?” The baby looked up toward the woman and admired the details of her face; her high cheek bones, her deep chocolate eyes, and her beach blonde hair that was pulled back in a neat bun. Smirking at her with a cocky expression, he reached into his diaper and yanked out a box of cigarettes, popping the top open and pulling one out. With the cancer stick in between his small lips, he looked up at her with a wide grin and asked in a deep, gravelly voice, “Aye, toots, got a lighter?” The woman covered her mouth dropped open and her eyes widened, backing away in a panic from the baby. “Oh my god, you can talk! And you’re smoking?” The baby watched her flip her lid before rolling his eyes and took out an old banged up lighter and lit the end of his cig. “Dames; can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without em,” he muttered in his thick New York accent, blowing a smoke ring into the air. |
Smoking Baby Journals |