They line up for a plate of pasta, an orange, and two PB&Js. We offer bottles of water and, together, say their name.
On Batman’s second time through he goes back undercover as “Bruce Wayne.”
We are visitors inside strangers’ homes. But we are not envious of their furniture or floor plan.
We hide our cell phones in zipped pockets. We leave our money in the car.
I hear someone say, “it’s the least we can do.”
And I say it too, though it feels like less than that.
We didn’t need to be there. The food was already made. Someone else could have handed out sandwiches more efficiently. Someone else could have smiled wider. Someone else could have sang happy birthday to “White Boy” on key.
But I had to see them, their broken smiles. It was for me, it was not for them. I saw them for an hour or two.
And it was was nearly nothing, but it was also the least you could do.