A rat’s agent of grace
I stepped out of the office this morning for one of my million daily smoke breaks and had my tobacco-scented daydreams of world media conquest interrupted by a man asking for a handout. He spoke so softly I wasn’t sure at first if he had asked for the time or for money, though, living in a city, expected the latter. Within a moment of appraising his appearance I was certain and automatically put on my Tender Sympathy® face, featuring the trademark head cocked to the side which means, “I’m sorry, brother, I have nothing to give you.” He was well familiar with my reaction and shuffled off, moving very slowly. But this time I didn’t turn away, I kept looking after him.















