The hole through which coins drop make the sound of metallic thud, which is not dissimilar to the moment when my head hit the storm drain. I was pushed there by a hand, which gripped my neck in a spasmodic mode of fury and spitting rage.
The clang of ear against the bubble of extra metal. It was so quick that even the air was shocked. It whistled as I flew past.
Once down there, I looked at tiny flecks of gravel-eyes. They looked at me with tears in their eyes. I thought that they might put up their hands to their face. It was surprising to see their eyes. A pleasure. Drips of blood made pools inside pavement shields.
My hair was a comfort as it touched my cheek. It stroked me there for a moment. I did not dare move, even though I heard lorries, cars, milk floats, bicycles, tricycles and scooters. Tiny toddler legs with pram-pushing. She gurgled in delight to see someone at her level. Tiny and without form. Plush and crumpled and small, like a child. My face an empty place wherein others would make their judgements. A scrotum of wrinkled desperation.
When the bus ran over my foot, I welcomed the pain. I could then forget the fact that I had been pushed over. By your hand.