A disheveled old man strolls, almost happily onto the subway. He's wearing shitty Salvation Army clothes, the grime on them blurring into one full colour of dirt on dirt on what might've been something white. He's carrying several plastic bags, all packed heavy with, most probably, everything he owns in the world. He smells of piss and stale beer and as soon as he enters the subway car, everyone, including myself, looks down to avoid eye contact.

He's talking to himself, as homeless people seem to often do. I can only hear bits of his course muttering over the din of the Madonna song blaring into the earbuds of my semi-new Discman.

Madonna-Song:  "When you open up your mouth to speak can you be a little weak..."

Homeless man:  "That dog's name's not Rover, it's Bill! Bill you know! Bill! He told me so his damn self!"

Madonna-Song:  "When you're trying hard to be your best can you be a little less..."

Homeless man:  "Hey have a new year eh! hehe"

Me:  "Huh?"

I can tell he's starting to talk louder, directing his comments at the other passengers. They're all looking down at their feet. I'm sitting closest to him and I'm hoping he doesn't notice me or look at me or, God forbid, speak to me. He rummages through his plastic bags and pulls out a pair of rounded-tipped scissors and a sheet of red construction paper and begins cutting. I'm grateful he's preoccupied now, perhaps he'll refrain from barking inane proclamations about self-naming dogs so I can get off this piss-reeking train without incident.

I'm thinking about the time and whether or not I'll make it to work before anyone notices I'm an hour and a half late and I curse myself for not wearing a watch.

The subway slows to a halt and I'm getting up. I've reached my stop.

The homeless man, whose gaze I've been avoiding, turns and hands me his sheet of folded-up, red construction paper. Instinctively I take it from his hands and the exchange unfolds the paper gracefully so it falls soft like falling feathers, opening into a string of perfectly symmetrical paper hearts springing from the tips of my fingers.

I smile now. I like the paper hearts and all-at-once I feel guilty.

The homeless man grins proudly, exposing his yellow teeth and when I finally look directly into his eyes, I realize they're kind and maybe even a bit mischievous. "He's not good enough for you dear." He says.

"Um...thanks." I say, holding up the paper hearts. "I'll keep that in mind."