He holds the tip of the bottle between two fingers and spins it, letting it pirouette on the pavement before noisily clattering to a rest on its side. He looks up, his head unsteady. People pass his place on the sidewalk, ignoring him as if he were a detail of the surroundings--the brick of the buildings, a bicycle chained to a lamp-post, an old newspaper...

"Hey," his voice croaks, drunk and coarse like gravel. He tugs at the sleeve of your shirt.

"Hey, kid..." His eyes are both vacant and infinitely sad. He looks at you with a kind of fearful reverence, as if you are a momentary vision on the verge of collapse.

"Sit here and talk ta me for a minnit, would ya?" He lets go of your shirt and his fingers briefly trail down the side of your hand. He smells of mildew, piss and tobacco.

"Nobody's talked ta me in more'na year..." He pats the sidewalk beside him, where leaves go black with rot, and his eyes are wild and pleading.

The world continues, you two together, connecting and unnoticed. The great machine turns, you two a small, bright jewel in the gears of it.