The rain had stopped some time ago, but drops of water still dripped from the gutters, from the lampposts and the trees. It was late in the evening, and the sun was sinking low as the couple turned into the quiet street.

They walked slightly apart, the man: tall, well-dressed, looking fixedly ahead; the woman: quiet, graceful, her head slightly bowed.

As they walked they passed a bundle of rags against a wall, next to a sign that read, "Sketch Portraits for a Dollar". The handwriting was coarse, but easily legible.

"Look, honey." The woman pointed to the sign.

The man stopped, turned. He seemed distracted. "Hmm?"

"Look," she said again. "Can I get my portrait done?"

"Do you have to?"

"No... but I want to."

The man looked at his watch and sighed. "Fine, fine." He fished in his pocket for some coins and dropped them on the ground, then poked the bundle of rags with his foot. "Hey, buddy, you awake?"

"Mark!"

"What? He's got his money, what more do you want?"

A thin hand pulled down the rags, revealing a leathery, lined face covered with stubble. Blue eyes, inordinately bright, peered up at them. "You wan' yer portrait done, miss?"

"Yes, please," said the woman.

The beggar inspected the coins and pocketed them. He rummaged around in his rags, producing a pad and pencil. "Hol' still for a minute now, miss," he said.

She did as he asked. Her dark hair fell over her face, she reached up to brush off the wayward strands. Beside her the man stood tapping his foot and glancing at his watch.

"You got a real pretty face, miss," said the beggar as his hands moved quickly, surely across the pad.

"Can it, buddy. I didn't pay you for chit-chat!"

"Mark! Would you relax, please?" To the beggar she said, "Thank you. That's very nice of you."

In the fading light he finished the portrait and tore the page off the pad. "It's... beautiful," she said, holding it up. He had drawn her looking off to the side, her face lightly shadowed by the setting sun, her hair gently ruffled by a phantom breeze. "Thank you very much."

"G'day to you now, miss."

"Come on," said the man. "We're going to be late!"

They hurried down the street. The beggar watched them for a while, then pulled the rags back over his head.

*

"Are you ready yet? They'll be here any minute!"

"Almost!" she called. She stood in the bedroom, gazing at the portrait. She had put it on the table by her side of the bed, propped up against an empty photo frame. Something about it attracted her attention, something she couldn't quite put her finger on --

The doorbell rang.

She shook herself from her reverie and hurried out of the bedroom. "How do I look?"

"Fine, fine. Come on!"

He swung open the door, smiling broadly. "Tim! Great to see you again, buddy! And Yvonne, you look lovely! Here, let me take your coats."

"Why, thank you Mark. It's nice to see some men haven't forgotten their manners."

Tim rolled his eyes. "Don't mind her. She's been like this all week. Stephanie, nice to see you again," he said, nodding at her.

She smiled. "Hi, Tim. How was --"

"Heeey, Mark, I like your living room setup!"

"Yeah? I thought you might! Here, let me show you something..."

The two of them wandered off into the living room. Yvonne sighed theatrically. "Boys and their toys! Steph, honey, you need any help with setting up? Kitchen's this way, right?"

*

"This is a great place you got here, Mark," said Tim as they sat down to dinner. "I'm only sorry we missed the proper housewarming last week!"

"Oh, yes, how did it go? It must have been fabulous! If only Tim didn't have to keep flying off on business."

"Well at least you're all here now." Mark raised his glass.

"Here here," said Tim, and laughed. Yvonne shook her head and groaned. "So looks like you got a real good deal on the apartment," Tim went on. "Looks like you'll be one of the lucky few, with the way the market's going --"

"Oh, no you don't, Tim! No business talk at the table. You just got back from another trip, aren't you tired of talking business all the time?" Yvonne turned to the others. "Mark, Stephanie, I heard you were in Malaysia a couple of months ago. What was it like? Tim and I are thinking of going one of these days."

"It was fantastic," said Mark. "It was just me, though. Well, it was mostly a business trip, but we got some time to ourselves so we went trekking in one of the offshore islands. Pulao... something or other, I think it was called."

"Was it nice?"

"It was stunning! Hot and humid though, the weather is killer. But the scenery was amazing, you should definitely go if you get a chance."

"Oh, we certainly will! If Tim finally manages to take some time off, that is."

*

After dinner the men retired to the living room, while the ladies remained behind to clear the table. For a moment there was silence, broken only by the clatter of cutlery.

"Take a look at this," said Yvonne, raising her right hand. A diamond-crusted ring adorned her finger. "Isn't it gorgeous?"

"Yes, it's beautiful."

"I've been waiting all evening to show it to you. Tim got it for me a few days ago, isn't he a dear?"

"Really? You were a little... hard on him over dinner..."

Yvonne laughed. "Oh, darling, that's just the way men are! You can't be too nice to them or they start taking you for granted."

"So... you're not upset that Tim's always away on business?"

"Oh, no, not really. I get to do whatever I want." Yvonne waggled her fingers. "Besides, he gives me lots of presents, as long as I keep him feeling guilty."

"I see."

Yvonne frowned. "Are you all right? You seem a little... upset. Well, don't be! Come on honey, let's head over to the living room. Some wine and gossip will cheer you up!"

"I'm fine, don't worry. You go on ahead, I've got to go to the bathroom."

*

In the bedroom she found herself staring at the portrait again. She followed the curving lines in the jaw, in the wavy dark hair. She studied the figure's expression: it was somehow dissatisfied, almost wistful. I look sad, she thought. Why did he draw me sad?

A profound loneliness settled over her as she stood there in the bedroom, a weight of reflection and regret. It was as though the sadness of her graphite counterpart was somehow being transferred to her.

At that moment the door to the bedroom swung open.

"What are you doing? We're waiting for you out there!"

"I'm sorry... I just needed to think for a minute," she said slowly.

"Think? About what? Never mind, just come on, will you? They're wondering what on earth's going on with you!"

She moved towards him, towards the door. She felt far away, detached; she heard herself speak, as though from a great distance. "I... can't. I'm going for a walk."

"A walk? What on earth are you going on about?"

"I can't do this any more, Mark. I need to clear my head."

She stepped past him, into the hall, towards the front door. He followed after her.

"Well, what am I going to tell them? Hey!"

The door closed behind her.

*

Her feet seemed to carry her of their own volition, out of the building, down the wet pavement to the end of the road, then right, then left onto the same quiet street they had walked down earlier. She walked from one island of lamplight to the next, until she reached the beggar who had drawn her portrait.

His face was exposed this time; he watched as she sat down next to him, saying nothing. His gaze was questioning, but mild.

"Why did you draw me sad?"

He stared at her for a moment, as though trying to place her face. "Tha's how I saw yer," he said finally. "You are sad, aren't yer?"

"Yes..."

"Why?"

All at once the absurdity of her situation descended upon her: she in her evening wear, sitting in a puddle on the sidewalk, about to pour out her heart to this anonymous beggar in his rags. She sighed.

"I feel... I feel like my life is slipping out of my fingers, like I've given up all my hopes in exchange for some pointless, mediocre existence. I don't even feel like I belong, anywhere..."

"Whaddya mean, you don't belong?"

"You saw my husband earlier. We haven't been married two years and he never has time for me any more, always working or off with his friends somewhere, but he expects me to always be there for parties or dinners with his friends, to smile and laugh and act like a good little hostess. I barely have any friends of my own any more, the only people I ever see are his friends, and they're all so talky and flamboyant and completely unlike me, always going on about themselves and their little lives, and he's always busy with his work, always distracted when he's talking to me, it's like... it's like I'm an afterthought in my own life!"

She paused, surprised at the intensity of her feelings. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm telling you all this."

The beggar sat up a little in his rags, and turned to face her. "Listen, lady, you're talkin' about not feelin' like you belong, wonderin' whether you've wasted yer life -- look at me, d'you think I feel fulfilled, sittin' here all day gettin' rained on?"

"No, I didn't mean --"

"I weren't always like this, you know. I used to have a job, a life. Now I got nothin', but you still got those things."

She sighed again, and started to get up. "You're right. I should be happy with what I have."

"No, no, that's not what I'm sayin' at all! Look, I get to see things, sittin' around on the streets all day. I watch people, I see what they're like. And if there's one thing I've learned, it's that people don't talk to each other. Not really. Two friends meet on the street, they say hi, how's it going, talk about their day, but it's all idle conversation. They're not really payin' attention, not really thinking about what the other guy's sayin'. They tell stupid jokes and laugh like it's the funniest thing in the world, then they walk away and that whole conversation might as well never have happened."

She thought back to the dinner conversation, how little worthwhile had actually been said.

He continued. "So you've got all these feelin's, I think you need to really sit down and talk with 'im."

"It's just... he never seems to listen to me."

"Make him listen."

She leaned her head back against the wall, looked up at the sky. The stars were out, the glow of the moon hidden behind the corner of a building.

"You're right," she said, getting up and brushing down her dress. A soft smile touched her face. "He bought me this dress, you know, back when we were just married. He didn't even seem to notice I was wearing it today, now it's ruined."

"Wait," said the beggar as she turned to leave. "What's your name?"

"Stephanie. Steph," she said. "What's yours?"

"Not important. Good luck, Stephanie Steph." And he settled back down into his rags.

She smiled, and headed for home.

*

Tim and Yvonne were gone when she returned. Mark was in the bedroom.

"What was that all about? Where did you go?"

"I... just needed to clear my head."

"Yvonne said you were upset about something."

"It's... nothing. It's nothing."

He sat on the bed and began unbuttoning his shirt. "You shouldn't do things like that. Tim and Yvonne were quite concerned."

Her gaze strayed to her side of the bed, to the portrait propped up there. "What about you?"

"What?"

"Were you concerned?"

"Well, of course --"

"You don't seem concerned."

"Look -- what's gotten into you all of a sudden? What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to say you care about me."

"What are you talking about? Of course I --"

"And more than that, I want you to show me you care about me."

"What, you want me to buy you things?"

"No! I'm not Yvonne, Mark."

"Then what do you want?"

"I want you to care about my feelings, I want you to spend time with me instead of being with your friends all the time and expecting me to tag along! You married me, Mark, not them. When was the last time we spent time together, really, just talking like we used to? I feel like I'm not even a part of your life any more!"

"Steph..."

"I can understand you being away on business, but even when you're here! I know it sounds selfish but I really don't think it's too much to ask --"

"Steph, I don't understand what this is all about. What do you want me to do? You know this job is demanding. You knew going into this that I was going to have to spend time away on business --"

"But I --"

"What, have you been talking to Yvonne? I know she keeps Tim on a short leash, but that's no reason for you to think you can --"

"Mark! That's not what I'm doing at all!"

"Then what? What is this, all of a sudden? And walking out like that -- what were you thinking? I had a hell of a time trying to explain that to Yvonne and Tim. They think I'm doing something wrong!"

"Please, just --"

"So what am I doing wrong? Tell me, Steph, what am I doing wrong?"

"For once in your life just listen! I came here trying to talk to you but you never listen!"

"I never listen? That's your big complaint? I work hard, all right -- where do you think the money for all this comes from? I come home tired from work and you want me to listen to you complain about how I never give you enough?"

She stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door. With shaking fingers she tore off the ruined dress and flung it into the corner; turned the taps in the sink and splashed water over her face.

She left the taps running and sat down on the toilet. She sat there in the dim moonlight until, through the crack beneath the door, she saw the bedroom light go off.

Then she turned off the taps and listened to the flow slow to a trickle, to a gentle dripping, and stop.

* * *