Hungry

So hungry.

Been three days since my last meal. Sometimes I'll find a stranger who'll offer to buy me a sandwich, someone who might be a bit soft-headed but well meaning and willing to duck into a blind alley to let an old man have a bite to eat.

None today. Nor yesterday.

In a new neighborhood. That's one problem. Had no choice but to leave. Too many rumors. Homeless folks disappearing. Corpses in the sewers, stripped of meat. Not safe there.

Here, no vagrants. People are less generous, that's another problem. Panhandled a little, all I got for the effort was a cigarette and a coupon for half off a Whopper. Smoked the cig, rolled up the butt in the coupon.

Check my watch. Three-thirty. Morning. If I make it to seven I can go to the little church over on Broadway, get a meal. Only serves on Wednesday. A little shed off to one side where I can take my meat and eat in peace.

But I'm so hungry. Stomache stopped growling sometime yesterday. Now there's a constant knot.

Parked myself on a bus bench earlier in the afternoon. Been here for hours. Bus doesn't even slow down anymore, just roars by; blank faces in the widows oblivious to my presence.

This part of town is less busy. Mostly home to the upper crust, those of the lofty noses and high opinions. The ones who will drop a thousand dollars on a new watch but can't be bothered to toss a little silver into some bum's paper cup. They make finding meals here hard.

Another glance at my watch. Time has slowed to a crawl. Seems like it's been three-thirty for at least an hour. Can hardly think straight for the gnawing in my guts. Hungry enough to eat about anything; even a slice of cheese on a crust of bread would be welcome.

The street is deserted. Not even cars pass at this hour. All the righteous people are at home in their beds, their stomaches full of meat. Their screaming, sniveling little brats tucked in tight, brankets straining against their fat bellies. Fido and Mittens snoozing on the sofa, smacking their chops, their jowls slick with the fat of table scraps.

I need to eat. Something. Anything.

There... That sound... The click click of heels on pavement. A late night walker. I see her, not far off, walking fat. Fast. Walking fast.

Nice suit, honey blonde locks pulled into a fashionable knot, patent leather purse clutched in white knuckled fingers. Her shoes are as expensive as the rest of her, two inch heels.

She speeds up as she nears me. Can hardly blame her. I'm sitting hunched over, hood pulled up, watching from the corner of my eye. I'd walk fast too. Faster than she is. But those shoes aren't made for running. She's close enough that I can smell the high priced perfume she bathed in this morning.

Click click go the heels. Click click. Click click.

I reach, grab hold of her arm. Hunger has made me swift, strong.

She shrieks. Silly girl no one to hear you. except me.

And I'm hungry.