Oldcastle's Journal
Jan. 28th.
Most of the usual crowd over at the Kiwi's. Near 11, we call it a night. The city is quiet, uneventful. A little colder coming back. I usually try to avoid taking the train, but tonight no choice. Strangers forced close to each other. I feel their eyes on me. I glance back at one. The passenger shifts in the seat uneasily. Someone coughs up a fit. The devil's weed. I sit with LJ and discuss the nature of damnation. We agree to disagree.
11:27PM. Come across someone's keys on the street. Someone probably dropped them in their alcoholic stupor. LJ mentions something about the moral imperative. I agree and head to the nearest police box. No one there. Typical. Across the street some girls standing around next to the menus. After some time, one of the older ones crosses over, cautiously. It makes me think of a wounded stray looking for some food.
Her voice is weak and cracked, but there's something else behind her tone, almost maternal. I decline her solicitation, citing my creed. Brief but cordial religious discussion ensues. Language skills rusty. I fumble for the words. In the end, she asks my business and I explain about the keys and she - Aiko, I learn - compliments me on my Good Samaritan deed. Hurm. We decide it best to leave them on the desk in the police box. I bid her a goodnight and take my leave. She won't be returning home until late. It doesn't occur to me until later to offer her my spare hand-warmer.
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