My sandwich is getting cold.  It lies halfway to my mouth, dangling there between my hands as I stare at someone over the toasted white bread. It doesn’t matter that it’s toasted, its soggy now with soaking up the mustard and peanut butter.  Don’t ask why I have a toasted mustard and peanut butter sandwich, I don’t even like peanut butter.  I’ve thought for the past five minutes to just get up and give it to the man across from me, who sits on a bench staring at my sandwich.

His clothes are all brown with compacted dirt and mud; his dog, too.  Perhaps they can share the sandwich.  If I had been sitting with a friend, we’d make a bet to see if he’d share it or just eat it by himself.  But if I had been sitting with a friend, had I any, I’m sure I wouldn’t be staring at a homeless man, or eating a mustard and peanut butter sandwich to begin with.

I begin to wonder what he’d think if I just walked right over and handed the sandwich to him.  Would he be embarrassed?  Would he let his dog rip it right out of my outstretched hand?  Maybe he trained his dog to snatch people’s food so that it was less obvious how hungry and desperate he was.  But the way he stared at the food perched between my still raised hands, I knew he was hungry.  I decided to stand up, set the sandwich down on the bench and walk away.  The park we sat in was lush and green, far too pretty for the both of us.  I rounded around a tree and looked back to the homeless man.  Both he and the sandwich were gone.

That was a year ago.  I wonder often if I’d bump into that man and his dog again, or even if I’d recognize him.  I think he’d be mad at me, for giving him such a disturbing flavored soggy sandwich.  Or maybe he’d be grateful.  I stopped going to that park since then, I had the feeling he’d be at that bench again expecting more sandwiches or even a request for a better tasting one.