You've always got me breakfast and dinner for the past year and a half that I've been here. Never missed a day. And even though I always said 'thank you', I felt like it was never enough. I thought of all the ways I could repay you, do something to return the kindness you'd shown me. But, you see, I didn't have anything to give.

Nothing material could compare to the joy it brought me when I saw you walking up the street, a paper baggie holding what was to be my meal for that night in one of your hands, and a steel flask in the other. You reminded me of a pixy – all willowy limbs and sharp features, messy and short and colorful hair – floating down to the little nook I called home. You bent over the railing of the basement entrance, haloed in the purple and blue from the neon sign across the street, and waved the baggie at me.

"Hi, Viktor. How's it going?"

I loved your voice. Oceansong, mellow waves and calm winds. Husky, heavy, but also soft and sweet.

Grinning, I took the food. It was hard not to smile at you. "Same old, same old. How about you?"

"Every day is exactly the same." You shrugged. Then, pointing at the brown package, you added, "spaghetti and meatballs. Vegan, obviously. And, here's your water with electrolytes."

"How was work?" I asked as I took the flask you offered me. I just wanted the conversation to continue, for you to stick around a little while longer.

"Well, I brought people their foods, then cleaned up their tables after they were done," you answered, and there was that hint of sadness in your voice that you always modulated away with something like, "nothing crazy or memorable, you know?"

I nodded like I knew, but I didn't really. I'd never worked, not since I cut myself off from my family, and—

Internally shaking the thoughts off, I blurted, "so, uh... what about your art ventures? Heard back from any galleries?"

You didn't reply; something else had your attention. I followed your eyes, noticing that my hands were gripping the stubs of my legs through the ratty quilt I was under – a subconscious attempt at reminding my brain that the ghost limbs I felt were just that, ghosts. Gone, nonexistent.

"If I hear back from any gallery, you'll be the first to know," you finally said.

You had no idea how much I appreciated that you didn't try to talk about my legs. It was as though you knew that it'd hurt me to go down that memory lane. You weren't rude and nosy like other people, and I loved that about you a lot. Your empathy, your humanity.

"When," I corrected, clearing my throat. "Let me know when you hear back from any gallery."

You smiled, casting your glow on me. "Right..." I had nothing else to say, and it was getting late. The evening became colder, and I knew I couldn't keep you any longer. Shifting your satchel from one shoulder to the other, you said, "eat that while it's hot. And holler, if you need anything else."

You turned on your heel and scaled the three steps to road level. Before you went out of sight, I called, "Solé!" You paused and looked back at me, your indigo eyebrows raised. "Thank you," I said, like I did every single night.

"Goodnight, Viktor," you sang. 

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