Poor Bastard

It’s not that I don’t like Pierre, I just forgot. My blasted phone hasn’t been working properly – I bought a new SIM card for the beggar, but it’s still on the blink.
Well, and after work we gathered at the kiosk for a couple of beers, and among the throng, I began thinking about my phone again. I guess I was kinda bored. Pierre was standing beside me, back turned, animated in conversation, and on a whim I pulled my phone out of my pocket and gave him a call. He heard the ring and excused himself, but I hung up just before he answered. I just wanted to see if my phone was working, see? He looked a little bewildered, and I admit I had a chuckle at his expense – twice the chuckle when he turned back, only to discover his conversationalist had thankfully departed. Poor old Pierre – he tries hard.
I spied the poor bugger throughout the night, pulling his phone from his pocket from time to time and staring at my number, trying to figure out who had called him. But he never worked up the guts to ring back and find out, poor old Pierre. I figured I’d do the right thing and tell him at some point, but by the end of the night I was riding the metro home, and I’d forgotten all about Pierre. Poor bastard.