I like legs.

So you know those ex-pensioners scattered all over the former Soviet Union without arms and legs? No? Well, for one thing, they're everywhere. I see them everyday. Maybe they're good at positioning themselves in the path of Americans, but then again, they seem to be everywhere. Some have signs that say, "I lost my leg in Chechnya/Afghanistan, please help". Some have prosthetic limbs they remove while begging to up the sympathy factor.

His hands are tatooed, maybe prison, maybe the army. His hair is greasy and wiry, touched with grey. He smells strong. It's easy to ignore him and to avoid his eye--his is sitting on the ground, beneath my gaze. It is harder to ignore the space where his leg used to be.

The money sticks to my hand. What am I afraid of?