They walked along the canal, where the fishermen on the wharf sold freshly caught fish. Something stirred in his soul, when Martin talked about his life. Some type of dark beauty blossomed in this homeless man. Suppressing fastidiousness, frequently snorting and sniffling, sometimes turning away or stepping back a half step, David still walked alongside, listening to Martin. Then they met once again, without any occasion.

***

“And what about Christina?” asked David.

“She was very beautiful but miserable. To tell the truth, I wasn’t feeling very happy then myself,” admitted Martin.

“What did she look like? I vaguely remember a homeless woman from the shelter, blonde, who wore a hat and had a black eye.”

“Yes, most likely, that was her. It happened once everyone in the shelter got drunk and started fighting over her.”

They were approaching the subway. It was noisy near the entrance. Several buses stopped nearby and passengers emerged from them. The heat was monstrous. The asphalt, which had been thoroughly heated by the daytime sun, gave off warmth along with vapors from treated gasoline, and oil from exhaust pipes.

“I remember we met in the park. She was sitting on a bench and drinking beer. And I fell in love with her right away. I called her Sunshine…” Martin was again digging for a cigarette in the pocket of his jeans.

“I’ve got to go, sorry. I’ve got to finish the article,” lied David, interrupting sharply. After two or three hours together, Martin usually started to irritate him.

Having a canine sensitivity to everything that related to him personally, Martin obediently nodded his head and put the cigarette back in the pack.

“Listen, man. Why don’t you write a short story about this… who is she…Christina?” offered David.

“A short story about Christina?” Martin squinted. “Deya-vid, you sure know that I plan to write a serious big novel. Today I read you the first chapter—about how I started to live life as a street bum. You didn’t even say whether you liked it or not.”