He was screaming into her jeans. Every inhalation was ragged, his entire body stuttering as he tried to take in air. Every exhalation was a desparate declaration: "You are making me cry."
He looked to be four, no more. His face was dirty, but his clothes were clean. The woman he was with held her hand to his back, but said nothing. He cried with his whole, tiny body, and he repeated his accusation into her pants: "You are making me cry."
The bus would be there in four minutes, but his wailing could be heard over the mariachi music blaring over loud speakers at 24th Street and Mission. The happy brass fist fought his constant throaty sobs, and my heart was breaking. He said it over and over and over: "You are making me cry."
His face was a slick mess of pain. His refrain, steeped in tears, became a song, sad and long: "You are making me cry."