A Feast of Unlikely Stories

Tonight however was different. It was one of those
evenings in late May when the sun seems to linger
in the sky for an extra half hour, and a warm breeze
signals Summer might finally be on its way. I had
been to The Angel for a few on my way home and it
had put a smile across my face. As I crossed the little
bridge, there he was. When I got closer he looked up
from the newspaper he was reading. He didn’t say
anything, but for some reason I felt drawn to him.
“Evening” I said.
“Evening” he responded.
He didn’t smile. I don’t think I ever saw him smile.
But there was a sparkle in his placid pale blue eyes,
which meant that he never looked miserable either.
He was wearing a large waxed overcoat, which
you would think was much too hot for the warm
weather we were having. Under it he had a tatty
shirt with tired looking jeans and scuffed boots. His
face, however, didn’t look nearly as grubby as a lot
of other homeless folks do. His hair was unkempt,
light brown and came down just past his ears. He
had stubble but not so much that you’d call it a
beard. His cheeks were almost hollow and looked as
if they’d previously held a lot more weight. I would
have found it hard to put an age to him. I would have
believed him if he’d said thirty right up to fifty.
“Lovely weather” I offered, which is a desperately
dull way to start a conversation but I didn’t know
what else to say.
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