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Description
I walk out of the tattoo parlor, clutching my wrist, thinking the money was well-spent. My friends walk quickly down the steps, eager to eat, be full. At the next story down there is a man huddled in the corner, ripped, dirty coat wrapped tight around his crumpled frame, worn out sneakers, stained sweatpants, fraying gloves.

My friends don't really notice him, or pretend not to, but my heart squeezes a bit as I turn the corner, clutching my wrist, believing my money was well-spent. But at the third step I shudder with selfishness, heartlessness, pray to God that I don't turn into judgment and lack of humility.

I swivel around, nearly fall, hold a hand to my chest because I don't mean to offend him (though he's sleeping in a cold stairwell for Christ's sake, it's winter and he looks so damn exhausted).

"Excuse me," my voice quivers, my hands shake. I wait for a visible response but he does nothing to open his eyes, to look in my direction. I take another step forward. "Are you sleeping here for the night?"

Feeble, lifeless (so fucking exhausted) he droops his lips and words leak out. "I have nowhere else to go."

I fall to my knees, fumble for my purse. "I'm so sorry, I only have a dollar," (I hope he didn't think I was lying, I just spent too much money), "And some change."

The dollar nearly falls from my fingers, but he catches it. I struggle with the change. "I think I have some quarters. I-I have some pennies if you want the-"

His fingers, thick and once strong, reach for the less-than-meager change as a child would reach for his mother, quick, needy. In my mind I lament about the vibrant men who walk past him everyday, what he must think about the past and his lost youth and vitality.

I'm trying my hardest not to let the tears fall. "I have a Canadian quarter, I think you could get away with it--" And it's gone from my hands.

He packs the change deep into an inner pocket, half-lidded eyes (I think) on my face as a plaintive thank you. I'm gone too fast because I'm so overwhelmed with sympathy, can't hear his farewell because I'm making the sign of the cross.

My friends question my location, but say nothing more when they see the tear stains on my face.