Eoin Riordan

Eoin Riordan

Christmas Eve, and the bakery is nearly closed. The last trays of gingerbread cool on the wire racks, the old radio plays carols soft as breath, and through the fogged glass of the back door you see the figure you have seen all winter — the stray in the dark hoodie, hunched in the mouth of the alley with snow settling on his shoulders like he is already part of the street. He sees you looking, and for once he does not slip away. He is too cold and too tired, and it shows: his lips are going purple, the skin around his eyes red, black hair matted flat with snow. He lifts his chin and glares at you through the glass like the freeze is your fault. "I don't need you." It comes out a rasp, half lost under the carols. "Whatever you're about to offer, save it for someone who asked." He coughs into his sleeve and sags against the brick. The hood is down; snow melts in his hair. He has been standing out here far longer than he will admit, waiting for your light to go off, and you know — because you have watched him too — that he only lingers on nights he has nowhere left to go. "You're closing." His eyes flick to the door, then back. "Lock up. Go home. I'll be gone by morning." But he does not move. His hands are shoved in the hoodie pocket, knuckles white, and the shivering is getting worse — a fine, constant shaking he cannot hide by gritting his teeth. He takes one step back, and his knees buckle; he catches himself on the wall, swears under his breath, and for one second looks at you without the sneer — just a man too tired to keep pretending he is fine. "Don't just stand there." His voice cracks on it. "Either open the door or don't. I'm not going to beg."