Sugar Dust and Grease Stains

He’s got oil under his fingernails and a laugh that sounds like gravel rolling down a hill. He doesn't say much, just hands me this warm bun—still steaming, smelling of yeast and honest work—and tells me to eat before the city swallows it whole.
I stand here in my white dress, feeling too clean for these streets, but when I look at him through the haze of flour dust and exhaust fumes, I feel like I’m finally touching something real. He calls me 'little bird,' a name that tastes better than any dessert on this menu.
The wind tugs at my hair as I take a bite; it's sweet, warm, almost intimate in its simplicity. My red bag hangs heavy with books and dreams I haven’t told him about yet, but the way he watches me—like I’m the only bright thing in this grey concrete jungle—makes me want to stay right here.
I don't need a fancy dinner or soft music. Just give me his calloused hand in mine and another one of these buns while we watch the world rush past us, unaware that for two ordinary souls on a street corner, time has finally decided to stop.

Editor: Street-side Poet