He looked down and scratched his thick, white beard as he said, "Well, I sell Christian books-- Catholic books." I took another drag from my cigarette and smiled, not knowing what to say. His eyes were too kind to offend. I sat down on the steps next to him and offered him one of my Camel Lights. "You know, it's all silly, really," he said as he flicked my lighter, "everybody's got a Jesus at their house. He ain't very special now, is he?"

I had to work today, but nobody was going to come in till 1pm, so I took a walk down the street to inhale the after rain smell. That's when I met him. He was sitting on the steps of the little book shop on a godforsaken corner of Camden, humming to himself a song that I've never heard before. He said hi, and that's how we started talking. I don't know why and how, but the more he talked, the more I talked. He took out a picture from the inside pocket of his jacket. "My wife," he said. I said she was very pretty. "She was," he said and told me that she had tiny hands like mine.

He said his wife used to sing that song every night for the kids as she tucked them into bed. She's gone now, but he can still feel her warmth when he hums it to himself. "I'll see her again soon," he said, telling me how his lungs were failing him, but he didn't quit smoking because that's the one good thing his old, trembling hands can do for him: holding the cigarette and putting it to his lips.

"I'd ask you to the dance if it was back in the day," he said when I got up to go back to the office. "And I'd gladly accept it," I said, waving.

I saw his lips part into a smile, showing his crooked teeth as I walked away.