He tries, sometimes, to catch an eye... a nod, a word, a smile... Most days, doors close softly in his face... sometimes not even that... just a glance that slides past, as if he’s part of the dust on the glass... He rehearses his pitch under his breath... words falling out and scattering on the pavement... He wonders if anyone hears them... if they mean anything at all...
Lunch is a bench in the shade, bread wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper... He watches people in pairs, in groups, laughing about something he can’t hear... He chews slowly... lets the noise settle around him... invisible in the middle of everything...
No one to call, except for the day’s numbers... He walks the city’s veins alone... Each evening, he returns home with shoes a little more worn... a list with fewer names... and the quiet settles in again...
At home, the clock ticks steadily, measuring out silences... The rooms above are full of voices, but none settle on him... He learns the art of stillness... how to fold himself into corners... how to let conversations pass over him like wind through a broken window... Sometimes, he places a cup on the table... listens for the sound it makes... and wonders if anyone else hears it...
Night comes and the city glows... As lights flicker in windows across the street... he wonders if anyone is looking back... wonders if anyone would notice if one light went out tonight...
Alas, he leaves no footprints in the dust... no shadow on the wall at dusk... In the ledger of the city, his name is written in pencil... smudged... almost erased... One day when the rain comes, and washes the streets clean... perhaps no one will really notice what is missing...
