Homeless man

He is always there near the station, with his beer bottle and his dog, the homeless man, who sleeps in his sleeping bag, peaceful like a lamb. When I am not rushing, which is quite rare, I stop by at the usual coffee shop, the barista lady always dressed in black like a goth, with the harsh red lipstick, her face glowing in the morning sun, is pleasant as a cup of hot coffee in the morning. I get my morning coffee, all wrapped in a funky paper cup with rainbow patterns on it. When I leave to catch the train, I never fail to look at him, wondering whether he is cold, whether he had a loved one somewhere or was it only his dog who was his companion, and when he is awake he would the warmest sleepy smile, and always expected some change. I would give him the change that I got from the coffee shot and wish him good morning and rush to catch the train that I always missed. Sometimes he was not there, and I missed him, and wondered whether he was OK. Other times when he was there the routine went on and we became connected perhaps by routine, by the charm of the buzzing city, the frozen blood inside our veins, perhaps as just people. Today I got two coffees, and came out and gave him one and wished him good morning. He gave me his usual warm smile. His dog was mute, as though the beast felt the city and homeless life weighing on him. But the homeless man with broken teeth was always smiling and cheerful. He has those twinkling blue eyes that looked straight into your soul and I asked him `are you not cold?!` he chuckled ` no my lady, look around, this world is a paradise`. I laughed and handed him the coffee and he replied ` Thank you, but your daily smile was enough`. With a beaming heart and a smiling face I ran to catch the train.

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