I could only capture the outline of the short, ragged man looking at me, asking for a cigarette.
He thanked me for saying no in a polite manner. It was the middle of summer, but he was still sporting a woollen cap which he straightened. He stroke his short, gray beard, and proceeded to tell me his life story. A story of being in all the right places at all the wrong times. He painted a picture for me in my head, before he touched my shoulder, called me princess, and made me promise to take care of myself.
He called me beautiful and said that if he had been younger and richer, he would have asked me to marry him. But he said he was old and poor, and that there were laws against people like himself marrying princesses.
The polaroid is dark and out of focus.
His face is illuminated from the lights of the train approaching, the picture blurred;
my hands unsteady from vertigo and emotion.