I’M SORRY

‘Excuse me,’ he said.
Just before Subway at the bottom of Montague Street after getting off the eighty-eight outside the House of Fraser - ‘You want this one or the next one?’ the driver had said - walking through the bus station, over the dual carraigeway where there’s no safe place for pedestrians to cross, I saw him coming towards me.
‘Yes?’ I said.
‘This is rather embarrassing,’ he said softly.
‘Ok.’
‘I’ve been busking my poetry and...’
‘...you’ve not done so well...’
‘...no, and I’m trying to get enough for a sandwich...’
‘...how much you need...’
‘...three quid,’ he said, paused slightly, during which I put my hand in my pocket, felt for change, and after which he said, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m sorry too,’ I said opening my hand. ‘Here’s two-fifty...oh, and another fifty, that’s three, how’s that?’
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you very much.’