I looked up to see who had interrupted my reverie and the face that greeted my gaze was owned by a bright-eyed man in his forties--obviously homeless yet strangely serene. Even in his dirty clothes he seemed almost out of place there on that busy downtown city street.
When his eyes met mine, they seemed to burn into me. I gave him a quizzical look, annoyed that he was talking to me and wondering what kind of drugs he was on. But it was what he said next that scorched the most:
It is true, I don't smile often though I'm easily amused. I've been told by others that the worst aspects of my shy, introspective, and brooding personality come through most clearly when I'm not smiling--which is most of the time, I must admit. It probably wouldn't hurt me to pick up that smile and put it on once in a while.
The man quietly walked on, whistling to himself. I am tempted to wonder if it was my guardian angel who tried to tell me what I dropped.