City centre. Eleven o’clock. Crescent moon. It’s chilly but not raining. The square’s deserted.
The street lights throw shadows. I sit breaking up cigarette butts, saving the tobacco, discarding the filter tips. I should have enough for a few days. Maybe even some to share.
I hear wheels on cobbles. It’s the street missionaries going about their God business. They draw closer. I see the soup urn on the cart. I hope they also have gloves. There’ll be snow, next month.
I recognise the tall girl. Julia. She doesn’t preach.
“Hi Dad,” she calls out.
“Hi, Jools,” I say.
This for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields weekly 100 word challenge found here.