It’s hard to walk down the street. I end up stopping twice on every block, holding my breath against the reek, dropping dollar bills into hats or plastic cups or guitar cases.
She was emaciated, a living skeleton. She didn’t even have a cup, just sitting there huddled in her ragged shawl. I pulled out a dollar, held it out. I expected a murmur of unintelligible thanks and a quick getaway.
Her hand shot out, grabbed my wrist. “You’re too kind,” she said, her voice ringing. I glanced up and met her eyes. I wish I hadn’t. “Much too kind…”
That Pot Or Vase I Think
21 hours ago