The people you see on the sidewalk.

If she could just wait a few more minutes, she was sure he would walk past her again - the man in the black coat whom she had come to associate with the rustle of paper (because he never put coins in her metal bowl the way everyone else did). He never looked at her either, but he always offered a little smile just the same, with the corner of his mouth; cool as the night breeze when the scorching sun's shift was over. Bright and beautiful as a new day when all hope seemed lost. He would have his coat buttoned up to his chin, his dreadlocked hair would hang carelessly over his face and he would walk up to her at the spot she always sat at (a little corner on the sidewalk where the fruit vendors usually set up). He would bend over on one knee as if to pay respect to a medieval king and place the money gently in her palm or in her bowl (he never threw it) then he would be gone, just as quickly as he had come. 

He came by twice a day: every morning, smelling of baby powder and a very light (almost unscented) perfume, blending in with and riding the wave of work fatigued and sleep deprived faces as he went on his way somewhere - his own place of work most likely. And she would watch him, the little girl, she would watch him go all the way, till the horizon swallowed up the last strand of his poorly groomed locks. He walked with a slight hunch, with his head down and his shoulders slumped. Anyone who saw him would assume his presence to be most sorrowful. But the little girl, she didn't think he was sad, just very shy or very quiet perhaps, but not sad. Since he was the only one who ever offered her a smile, he never looked at her when he did but she knew, his smile was hers. It's such an easy thing to give someone - a smile - yet he was the only one who ever offered. Him, with the unkempt dreadlocks and the slumped shoulders, he couldn't be unhappy. 

He didn't seem unhappy either, whenever they watched the sunset together, whenever she went home and Madam Sabitu, the fat lady in her sixties who owned the shelter, claimed her earnings before letting her in for dinner and asking her to find her space on the mat with her siblings (none of them related by blood). He didn't seem unhappy whenever she closed her eyes at the end of the day, clutching the money she had received from him to her chest after retrieving it from her underwear. They'd both sit in a field on a hill, he'd have his hair well groomed and held to the back of his head in a ponytail. There'd be a marigold tucked into it, just above his right ear and smile at the corner of his mouth. They would watch the sunset for hours or, more accurately, he would watch the sunset and she would watch him. He still never really looked at her, even here. 

It was like that, the relationship between them, on the sidewalk, in her dreams - devoid of words and eye contact. She was content with it however, she looked forward to the hours of sunset watching. She looked forward to him, she hoped that he would see her one day but even if he didn't, she was content with that too. She was fine with just catching whiffs of his almost unscented perfume when he stooped to give her alms. She was fine with watching his depressed shoulders melt into the soul of the world when he was out of her range of view. She was fine with just being a part of his story, even if only as a subplot, she was glad to be a part of a story at all. 

She had learnt early enough that her kind didn't really have stories of their own. Their stories were bought and sold for the gratification of those who were better off in the world. In newspaper columns and magazine articles, photography and art exhibitions. Their stories won Pulitzer prizes and Nobel prizes but it wasn't really theirs. It wasn't her story, it wasn't the story of her siblings or of Madam Sabitu. They'd been robbed of it and it really didn't matter because if it had belonged to them, no one would be around to listen when they told it. 

Growing up with the realization that when she walked, or when she pressed her thumb against the glass windshield of a parked car she left no prints, the little girl began to tell herself stories. Stories of a little girl who sat at the side of the road for twelve hours everyday with a metal bowl, in order to earn a place to sleep at night. It was a story no one would ever hear but she was fine with that. It was a story and she was in it and it was about her - she typically never asked for much. 

Tonight was the same, she wasn't asking for much. Just for a certain man with slumped shoulders in a black coat to walk past her again on his way home so she could finally go home too. It should've been around eight o'clock already, she'd stayed out two hours longer than she should, normally this wouldn't be a problem save for the fact that she still wasn't on her way. She sat there quiet and unmoving her metal bowl in hand even though people could hardly see her now. There was only one working streetlight close to the footbridge in front of the university gate which was right of the street where she sat waiting. She was sure that even if no one else did he would notice her sitting there when came around. She was sure… 

"Psst.. Psst.. Small girl! Wake up!" It was the university security guard. He was brandishing his flashlight in her face but she recognized his voice. 

"What are you still doing here?" 

"I'm sorry. What time is it?" she asked, ignoring his question politely. 

"it's almost twelve in the morning" he said in a calmer voice. 

"Oh…"

It was past twelve by the time she got to the shelter. Madam Sabitu took the money she got but wouldn't let her in as a penalty for coming back so late. Everyone had assumed that she'd run away. As she walked home after the security guard had roused her, she looked through her bowl. The paper currency note from the morning was still there with the coins but nothing else. He hadn't come back tonight. She slept that night as she did every other night, clutching the money he'd given her to her chest, with her knees raised to her chin because of the cold. No dinner tonight, she thought regretfully before shutting her eyes. 

He was there, looking very well cleaned up, with a marigold above his right ear, watching the sunset. She joined him and they sat there like that, not happy or sad, just content. Or no, she wasn't. She wasn't content, she was worried. What had happened tonight? Why didn't he show up? 

She was afraid too, she had never spoken to him before. What if he disappeared? 

"Where were you tonight?" She asked finally, "You never came back." her breathing was uneasy and her heart was racing but nothing changed, he stayed put. 

"I'm sorry" was all he said back without shifting his focus from the horizon as the sun drew the covers slowly over its face. 

"I want to tell you a story." she said, calmer now. "Can I tell you my story?" 

"I'd love to hear it." he said and after a pause, looked at her for the first time and held her gaze. They were both smiling now, they were both happy now and she thought she'd want to be here forever. 

"Umm… But where do I start?" The little girl asked shifting closer to the man and taking his hand. 

"At the beginning." He said simply. 

"Okay."

"Okay." He echoed.