by Carrie Frost

Created on: November 10, 2009   Last Updated: December 02, 2009

He didn't see or hear her approaching. He didn't even look up in his half drunken state. He sat there on the sidewalk, a weeks worth beard on his chin, black hair hanging to his shoulders. A bottle of whiskey sat next to him, the cap long forgotten. His eyes glittered with unshed tears. Even drunk he didn't like to cry, but he knew sooner or later it would happen. Green eyes stared at the pavement as he remembered. He had been wearing the same clothes for two days and they were both wrinkled and stained. He lifted the bottle and was about to take another swig when she stopped in front of him. He slowly looked up until his eyes met the clear blue eyes of a woman about his age. She was tall and lithe, her hair was a bright red that would have put fire to shame. Her skin was pale and took on a glowing softness. Looking into her eyes, he saw no imperfections, no flaws, only a strange perfection that had not been corrupted by the evils of the world they lived in.

She wore a pair of blue jeans and a baby blue zip up sweater with a hood. Tennis shoes cover her feet, keeping them warm in the chilliness of the night. The whiskey warmed his blood, making him invincible to the cold for a short while. Neither one of them moved. the sound of their breathing was the only thing to be heard on the empty New York street. He almost opened his mouth to say something, but couldn't bring himself to break the silence.

"Are you alright," she finally said, her hands hidden in the pockets of her baby blue sweater. Concern filled the depths of her eyes, making them look brighter.

"You shouldn't be out alone and talking to drunk strangers," he replied, his voice sounding weak and unnatural. She didn't budge, but continued looking down at him.

"Are you waiting for death?"

The question was odd coming from a girl as beautiful as she. He almost dropped the bottle, but his grip was firm and he sat it down instead. He wasn't sure if the question had been a joke or if she knew what was running through his head. He was stuck on how to answer, almost fearing how she might look at him. He didn't want to taint that perfection, that light.

"You needn't worry yourself with my troubles," he said.

"May I sit," she replied and motioned to the spot where the bottle was setting.

"I could be a serial killer for all you know."

She smiled at him, the act lighting up her face, as he moved the whiskey bottle to the other side of him. She sat down on the cold sidewalk, her eyes never leaving his. The sadness

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