A FEW MINUTES

He was sitting, crying on the steps of the registry office in Corn Street.
‘Why are they walking past me?’ he said, red face tears on cheeks. ‘They don’t even look at me.’
I stopped, looked at him.
‘Can I talk to you a minute?’ he said rolling a cigarette.
I sighed, reluctant, wanting to get home, ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘What do you want?’
‘I want you to listen to me.’
He said, ‘Why don’t they listen to me?’
‘I expect they want to get home put their feet up watch the telly,’ I said.
‘I can’t bear it, the way they walk past and don’t even notice me.’
‘They think they’ve more important things to do,’ I said, ‘than give you their attention.’
‘They’re horrible,’ he said. ‘Bastards,’ shaking his head.
He rubbed his eyes with one hand the other holding the cigarette he’d finished rolling.
‘I’m going to kill myself,’ he said.
‘That just limits your options,’I said. ‘You can’t do anything else if you do that.’
He looked at me, I wanted to go, I’d had enough.
‘I expect to see you on the streets the next few days,’ I said and gave him what change I had left after having been tapped for two pounds a few minutes earlier.