streets

It looked like a cat. It was too small. Swaying, scurrying. It was dark. The dawn light had not yet begun. The car edged closer, it was a dog. Small. Frightened. A collar on it. Was it a pet? Had it been abandoned? Had it run away? He passed by it, saw its face. Immediately, he knew that it was thirsty. The reasons as to how he knew came later. He felt a twisting in his heart. He looked around and then slowed the car down further. They came to a turn. He had to turn left. It turned right. He smiled as he saw what it had found. There was a puddle under the bridge. Then it came shuffling back towards the left. He got out. It stopped, shivering. Crouching. Ready to attack or run. Probably the latter. It looked at him, a manic, panicked look in his eyes. It was a he? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to look directly at it for fear that it might run away. He got out of the car. He looked around. He was by the old petrol pump. There was an attendant sitting at the far end, scrolling through his phone, looking thoroughly bored. The man in the chair hadn’t even glanced up. He got out of the car, leant inside, over to the passenger seat and picked up the package. The one that he had for situations such as these. It was four thirty in the morning. The only light came from the bright petrol pump. He walked slowly around the car to the side of the road. The dog looked back, and scurried faster away. He dropped some food on the ground. Way too much. But was there such a thing? It kept running. A little faster, it seemed. Or maybe it looked that way to him. He whistled. The dog stopped. Turned around, looked at him. He made cooing sounds. It looked at him, stood still, and then turned back around and left. He sighed, and got back in the car. He drove on, past the dog. He kept looking in the rear view mirror, hoping it would turn around. It did not.

It was evening time. The sun was casting a musky dusk glow across the sky. It was painting the ceiling of the world in hues of red, orange, and deep yellow. The tapping on his window was insistent. Then there was some harder tapping, more urgent on his window. He didn’t look to his right. It was best not to look them in the eyes. They would see his weakness. They would pounce. The man hobbled on. He looked in his side mirror. Pang in his heart. There were sweat stains on his shalwaar. The beggar’s beard, which he could now see as he turned to bend over and tap on another car, was long, and white. Indicative of his age. His face was wrinkled. He had some flowers in his knobby hands. He was trying to sell them. He hobbled oneard