There was something comic about the way he pulled his leg back and aimed a kick squarely in the small dog's hindquarters. With a yelp, the dog skittered behind the legs of a carefully accessorized Asian girl, and only then did it become clear that this wasn't horseplay, that no-one was fooling around.
As we got closer we saw the man shaking off his packages, telltale darkness blooming on the brown paper and puddling on the ground. So much filth from such a tiny dog.
"Get your fucking dog under control."
The girl failed to react. The chiuaua cowered in her shadow. The cute rom-con scenario was not playing out to script
"Here? How do you like this?" the hero asked, oddly calm. Leaning over her he wiped his piss-stained parcels - of canvases? of books? - on her coat.
She averted her eyes and jerked away, still saying nothing. No apology. No outrage.
All the Fort Greene folk who, like us, was diligently composting their food scraps (carefully stored in the freezer all week in reused plastic bags), looked at each other.
Now he was trying to wipe it in her face. Both dog and owner seemed to be getting smaller, shrinking back against the pungent garbage cans.
And then, with a final snort of disgust, he stalked away, and we went back to browsing the heirloom apples and the organic, free-range eggs.
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