“Do you want me to heat it up, Sir?”
“Yes, please.”

While waiting at the counter, I feel as if I’m being watched. His gaze is heavy, inescapable. I turn, catch his eyes, and offer the kind of awkward smile that hopes to defuse a creepy situation. Immediately, I feel foolish and ask:

“How are you, man? You okay?”
He’s whispering something.

Ding. My sandwich is ready. I should go, but I can’t. I feel anchored to the spot, as if invisible threads are holding me there. His stare pierces through me, and I’m rooted, standing in front of this strange man who is absently playing with a plastic spoon. His eyes feel like an X-ray. I edge closer to the table.

“Don’t tell me your name. Let me look into your soul.”
“Okay…” My morning has taken a hard left into the weird.
“You are John.” His right index finger taps the table in a strange rhythm.
“Erm, I am Alin. Can I sit with you?” My mouth is dry, and my legs won’t move.
“Aleen? That’s a stupid name. That’s not your name… I got demons, man. They won’t let me be. Your name does not match your soul…”

I sit down, uncomfortable, and unpack my sandwich. I bite into it, chewing through the silence.
“Look, I sometimes write stories about people… but before that, do you need anything? Want me to get you something to eat?”

“No, I’m good. I talk to many people, but no writing. Pen and canvas, man, no way. My mum used to write me stories, roll them up, and put them in my bones.”

He takes a break to stuff a rolled piece of paper into a hole in his jacket. His entire outfit is pockmarked with holes, each crammed with paper, plastic, and scraps of food.

I try to think of something to ask him, but the truth is, I don’t need to. I just need to shut up and listen.

“I got demons, man. They won’t let me be. I need to stay under the light, man. When it gets dark, they take over. It is awful, you know… I was born in October in the late ’60s, here in London. Not far from that Cannon Bridge… I had a flat there with my wife. She is no more… Life was good then. Privatisation killed everything. I’ve lost it all. House, family, friends—all gone. I had it all, and now I got nothing.
You said you write. Maybe you can re-write the Bible, put the Qur’an in there too—it is all the same.
My mum used to write me stories, you know, roll them up and put them in my bones. Now I can’t sleep. My eyes are tired, my soul feels like a rock at the bottom of the sea, and I’m somewhere in between…”

I realise I’m staring—and other people are staring at us, too.
“What is your name, man?” I ask.
“Look into my soul. You will see.”
“I don’t know, man. I can’t see your soul, I don’t know… Is it John?”
“No, that’s your name… It’s Mark, and I got demons in this life. They will destroy me, I know. But in the next life? I will be clean, man. No demons, just peace.”

It’s getting late for me. I finish my sandwich; it tastes like sand. The words we exchange float between two different worlds. I don’t know what to do with his story. It is fascinating, but I do not dare to continue. I have to go away.

“Look, Mark. I got to go now. Do you want me to get you something?” I ask, folding the leftover paper.
“No, just unfold that paper and throw it in the air, for good luck.”
“Can I take a picture of you, Mark? I think I want to write a little story about this…”
“A picture of what? Of me? Go on… You might be my only witness…”

I take the picture and call out:
“Goodbye, Mark. I’ll see you.”
“No goodbye. Pray for me, John. Pray for me so I win.”

I step out of the shop and onto the street. My mind is kidnapped by this strange encounter. The world looks different for a while, as if I’m seeing it through his eyes. Soon the sound of my footsteps syncs with my heartbeat, and soon, all of this will be forgotten.