I open the trunk and take my usual belongings from my bag.
The winter air blows against me, sending shivers over my still-wet skin and raising goosebumps. As I leave the warm, safe house behind, I know I will never return. The thought crosses my mind to steal something for profit, but I resist. Everyone needs money to survive, and the homeless are no exception. Today, I am full but what will I eat tomorrow?
Still, I follow my own rule: never steal.
If you take even the smallest trinket, you can never be sure of your future. What if, at the next party, while trying to charm another foolish rich guy into falling for you, you discover he’s a close friend of a man you robbed before? They’d call the police, and you’d lose access to their circles forever.
The world of these young, frivolous sons of wealthy families is small. Many of them are acquaintances or studied together at the same elite universities.
I’m not willing to take that risk. I don’t want to end up in prison or lose my ability to eat and wash luxuries I can still access for now.
If I manage to hide the faint smell of my sports bag or answer the inevitable prying questions, I can get by. Questions of morality stopped troubling me long ago. Sex may not nourish the soul, but hunger and disease are far deadlier.
Most of the men I’ve found are polite enough. They sleep soundly right after they’re satisfied, leaving me to do as I please. Celebrations like Christmas are especially fruitful; everyone’s too distracted by their indulgences to notice someone like me slipping through the cracks.
I walk along the riverside street toward the quay, carrying my sports bag, which feels lighter with each step. The area is deserted. It's a holiday morning, and all the "normal" people are still sleeping in their cozy beds. Even the sailors, accustomed to surviving extreme frosts to make a living, show no desire to work today.
I need to cross a massive international port and a long bridge before I reach my destination. The journey will take me a couple of hours on foot, step by step. Last night, covering the same distance took only fifteen minutes and a few stolen kisses. There's no fair exchange, but that doesn't change anything.
I dream of finishing this walk as quickly as possible to escape the biting wind. My freshly cleaned body is already sweating, but my poor feet, wrapped in thin socks, are starting to feel the chill. Thick wool socks are waiting for me back at my den.
Five years ago, I met someone who gave me shelter and taught me how to survive, how to carry myself as a homeless person, a "marginal," someone the world calls garbage. He saved me even though he knew my secret. He was the noblest person I'd ever met – kinder, better, and more selfless than anyone else. But I failed him.
He's dead now. More precisely, he was killed by a street gang of local teenagers. Witnesses did nothing. They didn’t even call for help. When he lay there bleeding to death, and the police came asking for descriptions of the young thugs, not a single "normal" person, not one "law-abiding citizen," offered any evidence.
I don't want to be "normal." I’d rather be like him: just garbage.
My angel left me more than a year ago, but I still feel his warmth and scent even now. The oversized, almost dimensionless windbreaker I wear has protected me since his loss. It happened the summer before last. That night was hot, and the windbreaker had been forgotten in the den. Thanks to his jacket, I have probably survived until now. I blend into the crowd and become invisible. Some people even mistake me for a young man, which works perfectly for me. Most of the homeless people in my area call me “his wife,” and none of them bother me.
The inheritance he left behind – his guidance and support – helped me battle cruel Fortuna day by day. The den remains the same. I’ve never called it “home,” only “the den.” It’s a tiny underground room between two metro stations. Originally a storeroom built for subway workers, it had been sealed off and abandoned long ago. That is, until my life goombah hacked open the door and transformed it. This dark, dingy space with its damp, basement smell became our dependable sanctuary.
I’m almost there now.