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It's a half mile to class. I look down at the sidewalk. Currently there are two dead birds, a dead chipmunk, dog s**t here and there. There was a dead cat. Fluffy, black, eyes standing out like glass in an old stuffed animal. I believe I found her "Lost" ad in the paper but I didn't call the number.

It's a college town, big enough that most people walking abide by the agreement not to look at you. The one who doesn't, I've run into at least three times, a middle-aged man with thin, brown hair hanging down around his ears. You can make out the curve of his head through it. You can tell he's looking at you even from looking from his knees down. It's hard to describe exactly why.

Every time I've seen him, he's told me to smile. It embarrased me the first time. I saw his boots, the wrinkles left by his knees in his blue jeans. I looked down because I didn't have anything to say. It's not the kind of town where people know your name. You don't talk to your neighbors, or at least I don't, but maybe that's me. "Oh. Sorry. Hi," I said, flustered at being called out on some social breach of conduct, and quickly moved along.

The other day he was sitting on the stoop of the Blockbuster down the street. As I passed him by, he said, "Smile. The world can't be that bad." I laughed. The third time, I was getting ever more crass, realizing he'll probably be the one to kill me one day. What else is he going to say as he extends my smile up to the corners of my eyes with a knife? Am I going to get a lecture on the death of sociability and grace? As he makes a jacket out of my skin, will he explain to me how smiles make the world a better place?

It's a half mile to class. It's getting a little cold, the time of year when the birds drop and lay on lawns until mowing days. It's a battle of umbrellas to get past others on the sidewalk when it rains. It won't be long until it's dark at 6pm and I'll walk back from class like a shadow. One of these days he'll get his chance. Do your best to help the police, okay?