Nameless

I had been watching him for over six years. Every day, around six o' clock in the morning, he would come, sit down in front of my shop, and prop open his instrument case. Truthfully, for the first three or so years, I had never really looked at him. I saw him, but never truly saw him. One day, for whatever reason, that changed. I stood in the window of my shop at six sharp and watched him sit down. To be completely honest, I almost cried.

The man was probably in his late late sixties, early seventies. He moved slowly and his face scrunched up often as if he were in pain. I observed him pull out his guitar. It was acoustic and rather old looking, but clearly got the job done. I watched as he checked to see if it was in tune, though I couldn't imagine something so old ever being tuned correctly anyway. He sat there, relaxing for a moment before he started to play. When he started to play, I started to pay attention.

His hair was completely white, with a little bit of grey peppered in. His clothes were torn and clearly hadn't been washed in a while. What shocked me the most was the missing middle finger on his left hand. It seemed that even with a finger missing, he could play just as well as anyone.

I stood in my window for a while longer before building up the courage to go out to him. I grabbed a cup of coffee and made my way out the door. When I stepped up to him, he stopped playing. I could see the look of fear in his eyes. I longed to give him a hug, no matter how awkward it might have been. This man was probably around the same age as my father; the only difference was that my father had a home. I took the coffee out to him, and said "here ya go."

He looked back and forth between me and the cup before gulping it down, the smallest smile on his face. I headed back into my store, bringing out a bag of chips this time. I handed it to him, nodded, and walked away. I didn't want him to have to thank me. I didn't want him to feel humiliated anymore than he already might have.

Every day for the next three years, I did the same thing. Occasionally I would change up what I brought him, but it was still the same, something to eat and something to drink.

One rainy day, the man didn't show up. It was the first time in six years that I hadn't see him. I waited around all day and a little bit into the night. He never came. By then I had figured out what happened and part of me knew, I wouldn't see him again.

I held it in until I got home, but when I did, I let it all out. I cried for hours on end. I hated myself for never even asking his name or telling him mine.