I don’t give money to homeless people

“Could somebody spare a penny?” Said the homeless man with organically green hair. I tried to tune him out, irritated by his shamelessness. I walked past him most days. Except when it was raining. He was never there when it was raining. I mostly hated him. I dreaded the sound of his demented voice. I tried my best to avoid eye-contact. 

One day in May he waved at me, and I smiled back. He ruined the moment by saying, “take me home with you!” His homeless lady-friend sneered, “yeah right!” I loved her for backing me up, for giving him a requisite reality check. 

Early June he surprised me by hollering, “why aren’t you jogging today?” I ignored him as usual. 

He no longer asks me if I can “spare a penny,” because he knows I’m a frigid bitch. 

We silently acknowledge each other’s existence. His glassy eyes gleam with laughter. Maybe he finds my face amusing. I don’t find him amusing at all.

He disturbs me. But we are friends now. He’s earned my trust or something like that

I don’t know. 

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