"You have any change?"

I look down at him. He lifts his filthy plastic cup up towards me, hoping I'll pity him enough to drop a cent or two inside. Or perhaps that I feel guilty walking away from him, leaving his cup empty, just like his stomach must be.

His lip is crooked, and I try to stare at it and figure out why, but I look away, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. Then again, he is currently in the lowest position a man can be; he is begging for survival, what could possibly embarrass him?

"No, sorry." I say, as I swallow the rest of my words, and probably my compassion. He gives me a smirk and a nod, he must not believe me. I look down at my boots, and notice he is wearing only socks. I try to remember if I have a few dollars in my pocket, but dismiss the idea of giving him some of my righteously earned money. He may want my money, but I need it.

As I decide to walk away, leaving his cup the way it was before he spoke to me, it starts to drizzle. I ponder over the idea of whether or not it is my punishment. I shake my head, certain that the clouds and sky have much more to be concerned about than my level of generosity.

My hands begin to tingle from the chill, so I shove them in the pockets of my coat, remembering how the man on the street didn't have one of his own. He was wearing a thin-looking, slightly ripped sweater, I recall, but that isn't my fault. He must have made a lot of misjudgments in order to be in the position he is. My giving him a cent, or even a dollar – isn't going to change that. If anything, if I'd given him money, he might have used it for a bad purpose, perhaps the reason for his current situation, thus not helping him, but only making things worse.

I begin to walk faster, wanting to reach a warmer place as fast as I can. I look ahead, and notice the grey sky behind the tall buildings around me. The color of the sky reminds me of the beggar's eyes. As I think them over, they seemed hollow, as if there was nothing beyond the saddening pigment they displayed. How could someone who seems to be about my age, perhaps his early twenties, already be so lifeless and broken?

The boots I wear are making an odd sound with each step I take. Split, splat, split. I assume it is due to the puddles forming across the sidewalk. They also squeeze my feet, I realize, and remind myself how they are practically brand new. I need to get used to them. At least your feet are warm. I tell myself, but quietly, inside my mind, so no one will hear. All he has are socks. Lousy ones, at that. They must have been made of cheap nylon. What you need when it rains are wool, knitted socks, with cotton or silk mixed with it, so it won't be too scratchy.

I glace around, searching for more beggars, perhaps to clear my conscience. Maybe I can give two dollars to the next one I see, to make up for the one I had lied to. Or, I can ask for the next one to save one of the dollars and give it to the previous beggar when he saw him. I chuckle. He would obviously save it for himself. Much like I did with all the dollars I had in my pockets.

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.

When I reach my apartment, with my keys now in my hand, about to unlock my door and walk into my warm and comforting home, I stop myself. There is no justice – there never is. But that doesn't mean I can't try to change the little of it that I know of. I leave my door the way it was – locked and untouched – and step out the building, covering my head from the hard rain with my hands, and I take a walk. I pass certain streets I know, I walk through various shops I've been to, but none of them feel like the appropriate ones. As I stop, a smile spreads across my face since I have found the perfect store. I step inside, relieved by the higher temperature inside it, and I take off my scarf, roll it over my hands and stroke its gentle fabric, the smooth touch of its teal thread.

I pace around the aisles, not able to stop smiling, as I look from left to right and vice versa. This is going to be wonderful. I keep thinking to myself. You are doing something great, and it'll change you. I can't help but wonder how he'll react once he sees what I have planned for him. I pick the item I find suitable, pay the cashier with the money I never gave the homeless man and walk out the store with a plastic bag in one hand, and my scarf in the other. Since it is still raining outside, I wrap the scarf around my neck, feeling the warmth of my neck spread to my heart as I head home.

.

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.

In my hand I hold a brown paper bag, inside it a black, wide and short scarf, knitted by me. I had made it the previous afternoon and night, hardly sleeping, though I didn't mind. It might not be a substitute for the Swiss-cheese-looking-socks he had on, but it is a nice addition to the flimsy sweater he wore, as he shivered through it.

He will forgive me. I reassure myself. He has to; this is better than a few cents. He will appreciate the effort and the thought. I grin, all my teeth showing, slightly surprising many passers as I walk over to my aimed-for destination. What if he is astonished by my surprise, completely touched by my concern for him that we wind up talking for hours, and fall in love? I shake my head, immediately dismissing my wild imagination, but can't help it and rush back into my colorful mind. He did seem to be someone possible to rescue – a troubled young man with an unfortunate past. Maybe we even have shared interests, or similar dreams? Pasts can change the future, making it better than ever planned. Hopefully, my act of kindness is about to change his.

As I step carefully on the ground, noticing how bright it is this morning, I make the right turns on the streets I had walked on yesterday. Clutching onto the bag, to make sure I don't drop it, I look up at the sky only to see the sun peaking from the white clouds – as if it were smiling back at me, giving me a signal that I am doing the right thing.

I reach the crowded street where I first saw him, but he isn't there. My heart seems to be sinking, as my smile fades away. I no longer feel the warmth of the sun on my shoulders, it no longer giving me a tap on the back for being good. I had missed my chance. I understand. Sometimes it is just too late.

How could I have thought he would still be there? Of course he would move. It isn't his permanent home. He must've decided to try another street, to increase his luck, and his gain. I take brisk, large steps all around the building I remember seeing him rest on. I try to imagine him, leaning on the wall, his hand holding up the plastic cup I had refused to fill. What have I done? I ask myself, waiting to hear the answer echoing inside my head. I honestly thought this would work. I look down at the ground, at my shoe-wearing feet, only to frown even more than before.

My hands holding on less tightly to the un-received gift, I can't help but feel like a fool. How could I have thought that this would go my way? You can't expect a beggar to assume you will come back for him. I try to explain myself, for future experiences. You don't fall in love with them, either. I add, as I remember the blissful ponders I had on my way to the street filled with people, not with him.

When I reach a corner of a street, much like the one the beggar of my dreams had leaned on the day before, I see that it is empty and I gently place the bag near the lonesome red brick wall and walk away, not wanting to meet and get attached to its future owner. As I turn around the corner, and walk on home; I realize that sometimes, things are better left untended for. You can't expect to change the world, because by the time you try, it has already moved on. You couldn't have saved the beggar. I concur. All you could've done was given him some change.