Cars whiz past the invisible homeless man seated in front of the library. Even the bust of Hermes above the door dismisses him.
Gnarled hands clutch a Styrofoam cup. Hot liquid replaced with chump change. The giver’s eyes always downcast; desiring not to connect. They are worried his obscurity might adhere to them.
He was a husband and father once, and delighted in holding his newborn child. Addiction displaced his family and dreams.
Car horns blast, as a passerby drops change into his cup. The kind eyes of a little girl meet his gaze.
‘Thank you miss.’
‘You’re welcome sir.’
100 words/Genre: Hell, I don’t know.
Thank you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers. It tickles me to death to write with such a great group of writers. Please be sure to go to her page and read their stories too. We are a rather eclectic group and the genres run the gamut.
I welcome kudos and criticism. Thank you so much for reading.