As we walked passed, he looked up at us from the curb, half-smoked cigarette hanging from his lips, and asked for spare change.
“I don’t have any money,” I tell him.
And I don’t. All I grabbed on my way out the door was my camera. This time was for art-making, not for shopping.
“Will you take my picture?” he asks when he sees my camera.
“Sure,” I say, and I kneel down to snap a few photos of him. It’s dusk and the last light is about to bleed out of the day.
“It’s a little dark,” I say, “so you might come out blurry. Try to hold still.” He tries.
After I take the picture, I sit down beside him to show him. Then I ask him his name.
He thinks for a moment, then tells me: “Drifter.”
I walk past the same spot the next day, but Drifter isn’t there anymore. He’s moved on to somewhere else.
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