Blue Moon

Can you spare a homeless man a cigarette, he asked as I was just about to step in the front door. I can roll you one, I said, but it'll take a second. What is it about purses that always leaves the things you need therefrom in unreachable corners? He sat down on the step, we began to talk as I rolled. Filter, or no? He told me he was on the run from a jail sentence across the border, explained the long gash across his face, pinpointed my accent. I grew up right here, in SoFo, he scoffed at the word, but hell, I've never even had a caffe latte.

He can't have been much older than me. His lines were clean, his eyes kind, his hair mussed the way men his age spend hours perfecting. In another world, he would have been far out of my league. Now, instead, I was the one turning him down for continued company; I was the one with an agreeable night ahead. He offered me a beer; I told him to take care of himself. I usually spend winters in prisons, he answered. That's one way to do it, I responded. We shook hands; his grasp was firm, strong.

Hours later, when I came down the steps and out the door again, the curb was empty. I looked for him in the dark streets leading me home, but they were empty. And I missed him.