Osaka

My high heels hit on the cement stairs with that special short staccato that only perfect vintage three inch heels from the 1930s can perform. I was excited; I had a date for the first time in years. Having lost my mp3 player last year I was humming my favorite tune. I was happy I made it with out getting lost. My eyes were on the goal, the big world of Osaka night was right out side the train station. My eyes searching for a sign in English, swept across what I thought was a bundle of trash. I will never get to used to the large bundles of garbage everywhere. My American sense of disgust was tingling. Then the bundle moved -well snored. I have walked past plenty of homeless people in Japan before. But in my experience it has been groups of two to ten. But this one, curled up on the stairs in the fetal position covered in rags, newspaper and plastic bags, this one stopped the music of my heart and replaced it with an emotion that any language is inadequate to handle. It wasn’t not pity, it was not disgust. I knew money, offer of my last cigarette wouldn’t make it any better, and nothing I could do could make his life better. But I wanted him to remember that wasn’t a piece of trash. I had the urge to wash this mans' sorrow in the wave of my infinite humanness.
But all I did was stare.