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I intend to refuse his money, but he only retrieves a handkerchief and places it in my hand. “You have something on your face.”
His skin brushes against my gloves for a second, and though the contact is brief, I see it.
A wedding ring on his left finger.
I bunch the piece of cloth in my hand and nod in thanks. I don’t know why I expected him to smile or even offer a nod in return.
He doesn’t.
His eyes penetrate mine for a few seconds, then he turns around and leaves.
Just like that.
He’s erased me from his unlucky afternoon and is now going back to his wife.
Considering the extreme discomfort I felt in his presence, I figured I’d be relieved when he left.
On the contrary, it feels as if my breast bone is digging into the sensitive flesh of my heart.
What the hell?
I stare at the handkerchief he placed in my hand. It has the lettersA.V.embroidered on it and appears to be handmade. Something of value.
Why would he even give me this?
Something on your face.
There’s a lot of shit on my face. A layer of dirt, actually. Since I haven’t been in a public restroom for some time. Did he really think a freaking handkerchief would be the solution?
Pissed off at him and at my reaction toward him, I toss the handkerchief in a trash can and storm in the opposite direction.
I need a hot meal and a bed tonight, and if it means meeting the devil again to have them, so be it.
3
Winter
Istop before rounding the corner toward the shelter.
Saying I’ll face the devil and actually doing so are two different things. After all, I clawed at his face, kicked him in the balls, then shoved him against his desk the last time I saw him.
He might really catch me and force me to spend a day in the police station.
A low growl escapes my stomach and I wince as it contracts against itself. I can almost feel it opening its mouth and when it finds nothing, makes this god-awful sound.
I wrap an arm around my middle as if that will magically appease the ache.
Okay, I’ll just try to sneak in some soup and leave. Many homeless people who don’t spend the night here come only for meals, so my plan shouldn’t be weird.
I pull my hood over my head and rub my hands together in a half-assed attempt to warm them as I round the corner.
Two police cars are parked in front of the shelter with their blue and red lights on. A few news vans are scattered around the shabby building. Reporters and cameramen are everywhere, like bugs searching for a juicy piece of trash to bite down on.
Don’t tell me that slimy asshole called the police and the media because of me? I only kicked him. Okay, maybe I clawed at his face and punched him, too, but that was in self-defense. He’s the one who called me into his office and was feeling me up where he wasn’t supposed to be touching.
I might have little—okay, nothing—but I can protect myself against bastards like him.
But if I tell that to the police or the media, they won’t believe me. Why would the respectable director of a homeless shelter, who’s also running for mayor, touch an insignificant, dirty person like me?
