POLLUTING

I passed by a drunken man of candid sorts on my way out the door. He was lying in the  small passageway large enough to fit his body, in a pool of sour vomit and leftover dinner, and I recognized him. I had known him as the rich playboy who splattered money lavishly and his women as well; they were always fancily made up with jewels growing from the creases between their fingers like bacteria, with smiles too pretentious for me but perhaps flattering enough for his like. I must admit I appreciated his current condition a lot more than what I was used to; there was something warmer and inviting as opposed to the usual feel of condescension I received from his throne. He was helpless and smiling unconsciously, and as I walked by him he had called my name to stop me, much to my surprise. I looked at him, eyes wide in wonder. 

Thank you... for the pretty dish.

What?

You brought me a slice of cake earlier today in a pretty dish... it was really nice, I really liked it...

I had never expected a man like him to be capable of expressing gratitude, especially for mundane details as such, and his level of sincerity touched me. All of a sudden I was drenched with running warm electricity; he stared at me with smiling eyes waiting for a response. 

What was I supposed to tell him? I had no recollection whatsoever about delivering some piece of cake in a delicate dish for him, but as he mentioned I began to have flashes of what the plate had looked like. It was not imaginary, but rather like a distant memory being refreshed and floating up to the surface again. It was a white porcelain dish with pink lacing borders and a gold lining. It was very pretty indeed, pretty enough to flatter a guy like him.