The Short Story about Charlie
My friend Charlie Popovich had loved only once, once like a hundred times altogether, and, well, he couldn't move on.
No one had recognized their brother in the shape of a bum that had been quietly dying by a half-empty cardboard coffee cup.
"Hey, Charlie," a prostitute shouted out at him thinking he was resting, his half-opened pale blue eyes seemingly gazing at the top of St. Patrick's church tower.
Two blocks down, an elegant lady deeply in her thoughts was hailing a cab heading downtown. She didn't even know that the blue-eyed bum Charlie Popovich was leaving the town slowly and quietly. The same Charlie that had twenty years earlier, with that now graying business woman, enjoyed the amusement parks and beaches of Coney Island, believing he had found his luck beneath the cap of the biggest American city. After the intense and short-lived love affair, they went their own way. She had found herself on the Wall Street, and Charlie had found himself on the – street.
At around 3:30 pm, like a sick pigeon under the shade of a big cathedral, an apparently common bum passed away. His tired and free soul flew atop the roofs of grey buildings and joined a flock headed towards the sky.