A Curb in London

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On a curb in London, a girl sat. she had begun sitting there every day, from sunrise to sunset, just the week before. she found that that particular place is the most generous, as in, the people there was not too poor to give her a few spare coins, although not too rich to worry about associating with someone like her—a beggar, in their eyes. but even though the girl didn’t know it, that’s how everyone saw her. As an unfortunate young woman that had dwindled to nothing through the use of illegal drugs. But she hadn’t touched a single drug or smoke in her life, so these thoughts must’ve came from the appearance of which the girl had, her eyes, one blind, faded to a dull grey and halfway closed all the time, and the other open and afraid, and a little off center—a defect at birth. Her hair was always disheveled, most homeless people’s are, and she wore pants that had been ripped into uneven shorts. Her feet were bare, tough and blistered, because she didn’t have shoes. Even though she made sure to sit where there are the most traffic, there was always little to no luck in scraping enough money to eat a single meal through out the day. that day had been unnaturally cool, and she was thankful. Since it was summer, the days were getting hotter and longer than ever. she was about to pack up the little things she had—a pair of old sunglasses, a water bottle someone gave her, her plastic cup she used for asking for spare change—when a young man stopped beside her curb. He was dressed nicely, she noticed, with shiny shoes and hair styled just-so. She could tell right away he wasn’t in need of any money. She didn’t think anything of his stopping since this was a busy side of the street. She assumed he was just a passerby. She had already put on the sunglasses and grabbed her other belongings when she heard him talk. “Miss?” he asked. she stopped where she stood, facing away from him. he couldn’t be talking to her, could he? she thought, not letting herself imagine, much less believe anyone as well-set as he appeared to be, talking to her. “Can—can you hear me?” the girl smiled humorlessly to herself. he thought she was deaf. Of course he did, she thought to herself, look at yourself. No money. You haven’t showered in about a week. She was going to walk away. act like she was indeed deaf. It was for the best, rest assured the dignity she had left. Well, who was she kidding? She had no self-esteem or dignity. She had left that with her parents the night everything had changed for the worse. turning around, she sighed. “Yes?” her throat was dry and her voice raspy. The young man seemed the same age as her but different. So, so different. His hair was a dark brown and it swept across his brow and his cheeks was full of color, whereas hers were a pasty pale. he smiled sweetly, and for a second, the girl could’ve sworn he had mistaken her for someone else. an old friend, maybe. Then he asked, “What’s your name?” “Aza.” She answered, her voice cracking still. “Do you need directions? Or perhaps you—” he interrupted, “No. I just wanted to ask you something.” He paused hesitantly. “when was the last time you had a full meal?” her breath caught in her throat as she tried to recall the last meal she had. Tears pricked her eyes and she squeezed them shut angrily. “Last,” she hesitated, trying not to cry in front of this stranger. “last month. A kind woman invited me over for dinner.” he nodded slowly, down casting his eyes as he takes a black leather wallet out of his pocket. He withdraws some cash and holds it out to Aza. the stack wasn’t thin. She couldn’t tear eyes from the green leaves as she stuttered, “Wha-what,” “take it.” he said kindly. Aza looked up now, and into the strangers eyes. “What’s your name?” she asked quietly. She knew she shouldn’t keep the man any longer than she had already. Surely he wanted to get away from her, just to hurry up with his charity case. But his return smile made Aza question her thoughts. it was small and sweet, yet still had no sign of pity. And she was glad for that, she didn’t like being pitied, even though she was quite pitiful. “Jonah. My name’s Jonah.” “well, Jonah, thank you for your help. It means a lot.” Aza replied, yet she didn’t like how the words tasted on her tongue. “Get a meal.” He said softly, then turned around walked away.