6.7

Alexi's eyes were sunken deep into the unhealthy-looking bones of his face. He stooped to pick up each piece of trash on the sidewalk with a slowness born of infinite deliberation. His pockets were full. He started to hold the trash in his aged fingers, skin pulled taught over knobbly joints, flesh pocked with old mistakes and the scars of accidents he had already forgotten. He spied a trash can on the corner and his pace picked up, arms shaking with anticipation.
A piece at a time, he watched his collection flutter down into the bin. I watched as he emptied the pockets of his pants, front and back, each pocket of his shabby coat, and began to pull apart the lining. Long strips of fabric, torn from his shirt, the elastic from his socks, an accumulation of bunched-up fibers ripped from his pants. Soon, he was reduced, and the can was full. He tottered off again, down the street, where I saw him stoop for another scrap of paper.