Gray, lonely, cold slick street, Dry doorway refuge. Aroma steaming transom fan, Heady scent of bread, Warmth swirling round my head. Streetlight blinks across the street, Shedding tears of melting ice. Car slows, stops, Window descends. Handsome, dark-eyed stranger asks, “Do you need a ride?”
If you watch enough T.V. murder mysteries, the answer is “no thanks.”
Anyway, standing in a doorway surrounded by the heavenly smell of baking bread, is a better experience than having a starring role on Unsolved Mysteries!