“Hell no, I don’t want you to write about me. Damn it, that was good coffee.
Okay, you can take a picture but not so close. You gave me the orange, but no… no writing. Who gives a shit I’ve been on the streets for the last 18 months?
Next Friday, 18 months...
My mum died when I was 12, and she used to beat me every day. She was a drunk, like I am right now. Fuckin’ hell! Me and my sister too... No, I don’t miss her. Who cares?”

I’m speechless. My eyes are fixed on the brown puddle of coffee, slowly being swallowed by the pavement.

“My partner and I used to have a flat. Now I’m 42 and living on the streets. Where do I get two thousand pounds for a deposit? Do you know that they stole my shoes at the shelter? ”

She’s getting anxious, fingers twitching as she peels the orange. For a brief moment, the fresh citrus cuts through the heavy blend of coffee and urine that hangs around us. I have no idea what to say. I should go, but I hesitate. Her expression darkens. I might have overstayed my welcome. Her eyes are locked on the empty paper cup as she chews the orange, lost somewhere I can’t follow.

“Look, I’ve also got an apple. You want it? What’s your name?”

“Oh, I’m Jane, and I can’t eat apples. I’ve got bad teeth, you know.”
She pulls her lower lip down, showing rows of yellowed, crooked teeth. I slip the apple back into my pocket.

“Well, I’ll see you around, Jane. I’ve got to go, but if you change your mind about me writing your story…”

“Fuck it, write whatever you want. Nobody cares anyway... thanks for the orange.”

I put my earphones back on, but her voice still cuts through:
“Ma’am, can you spare some change, ma’am?”

Slowly, I retreat to my world. Like me, hundreds of people move past, all of us careful not to step out of our own.