he sits there with a box full of cigarettes, gums, and candies. he sells them for some cents. to get by, to pass the time. in one corner of the street that most people try to forget. must be the color. must be the thick dust. but sitting there, he makes that pink shed clean. i sit there sometimes, with no one to wait. just sit there.
one afternoon i spotted him. and the next day after. every 5pm. like a force of habit. he waits. alone. with a box of cigs and candies. then he leaves. it signals that the job's done. the next day, he comes back...perhaps to wait again.
maybe, just maybe i'll approach him one day and introduce myself. maybe i'll tell him my story. like a stranger pouring her heart's out to a stranger. maybe he'll understand. maybe i will.