The perfectly-coiffed blonde in the Volvo S80 slowed for the yellow light and glanced at the action on the traffic island. A scruffy panhandler was holding up a sign.
You CAN go
Sigrid would have raised her eyebrows if she could--she certainly hadn’t run into that erudite an allusion last month when she was doing her exposé on the Twin Cities’ homeless situation.
The light turned red, and she took another look at the man. Typical homeless--hair down to his shoulders and sweatshirt that looked like it had been pulled out of a trashcan. Fighting the dregs of her last Botox injections, her forehead tried to knit itself in concentration. There was something familiar about him, about the set of his shoulders and the way he moved.
Good God! It was her ex-husband!
A pang of grief swept through her. Just as quickly, she threw up her mental barriers.
No, don’t feel sorry for him--he doesn’t deserve it. You gave him everything you had, and he let you down. He let everyone down.
But the hell she’d let him stay out here begging on the street.