The Puddle I’m Sitting In

The rain’s got that trick where it finds every gap, you know? Collar, cuffs, that worn bit at the knee. Been sat here since morning and I’m soaked right through to my socks. Not that anyone’s looking. They’re all doing that thing, eyes straight ahead, like if they don’t look at me I’ll just dissolve into the pavement. Maybe I will. Feel like I’m halfway there already.

She just walked past in them clicking heels, the ones that sound expensive even in the rain. Smell of perfume trailing behind like a ghost. I used to buy perfume. Claire wore this one that smelled like vanilla and something else, something warm. Can’t remember the name now. Can’t remember a lot of things, but I remember that smell. Funny what sticks.

This fella’s stopped, no, wait, he’s just tying his shoelace. They do that sometimes, crouch down near me but not too near, like I’m contagious. Maybe I am. Maybe failure spreads through the air, gets in your lungs. He’s off now, back into the river of coats and umbrellas and shopping bags full of things people need. Things people want. There’s a difference. Used to know that difference.

The shop window behind me is all lit up with jumpers and mannequins that look warmer than I’ll ever be again. They’ve got these blank faces, but somehow they look more alive than I feel. They’ve got purpose, them mannequins. Someone dressed them this morning, positioned their arms just so. Nobody’s positioned me. I just sort of happened here, like rubbish blown into a doorway.

Kid’s staring now. Little one in a yellow coat, bright as a daffodil. Mother’s yanking his arm, dragging him along, whispering something I can’t hear but I know what it means. Don’t look. Don’t ask. Don’t think about it. The kid’s still looking though, over his shoulder, these big confused eyes. He’ll forget me by dinner. I’ll be that weird thing he saw in town, like a pigeon with one leg or a busker who couldn’t hold a tune.

My sign’s getting soggy, the cardboard buckling. ‘Hungry. Anything helps.’ Took me twenty minutes to write that. Kept thinking I should put more, explain things. Tell them I’m not a drunk, not a junkie, just someone who ran out of chances and couldn’t find where they keep the spare ones. But then it seemed like too many words. Nobody wants to read a novel on a bit of cardboard.

The wind’s picking up, cutting straight through me. Sometimes I think about getting up, walking somewhere, anywhere. But where? This spot’s mine now. I’ve claimed it with my damp blanket and my soaked-through shoes and my little collection of coppers in the polystyrene cup. Eleven people walked past in the last minute. Counted them. Eleven pairs of shoes that’ll go somewhere warm tonight.

The rain’s getting heavier. They’re walking faster now. Heads down, dodging puddles.

None of them see the puddle I’m sitting in.