He checks his reflection in the rain-spattered window of a parked cab, tugs the woolen cap further down his forehead. The wind and the wet bite through his threadbare jeans, but the coat is thick and he's thankful for it.
He ducks into the corner shop, stamps the water from his work boots, buys a coffee. The face of the old man behind the counter stops him in his tracks. He knows the man. Remembers him looking a little younger, sadder.
He pays for the coffee and stuffs a few bills into the tip jar. Out of guilt, perhaps. He doesn't know what else to do except confess, and there's just no good way to tell someone you killed their wife.
The rain has let up by the time he gets outside again. The coffee's sitting in his stomach like a brick.
He rounds the corner and plows into someone in a tailored black suit. The cup crunches and its contents spill down both of their chests. He tries to apologize, help the man up, something. But the suited man is already back on his feet. And shit, it's Bruce Wayne.
"No harm done," says Mr. Wayne. "Nothing a my dry cleaner can't—"
Mr. Wayne stops talking, only stares at him.
He shrinks back from that intense gaze. It's almost as if…
No. No one could recognize him. Not dressed like he is, in his cap and coat and scarf. None of his scars are showing, and that's all that might give his identity away. No one knows him by his face alone.
Mr. Wayne shakes his head, shrugs it off. "Sorry, you looked familiar. My mistake."
They part ways but peer over their shoulders as they pass, catching each other's eyes.
He thinks Mr. Wayne knows. It worries him. He shoves his gloved hands into his pockets and runs to the bus stop up the street, sits down. Waits. Concentrates on breathing. All these people are starting to blur together. He needs another pill.
A pretty girl takes a seat beside him. She's listening to music, off in her own world.
He bites the inside of his mouth to distract himself. All the old thoughts are starting to crowd in. His heart's beating so fast that it aches.
She turns to him, smiles. Says nothing. Doesn't need to.
Fuck, that smile. He tries to focus on it, keep it in his mind's eye. The first smile he could remember in a long, long time that was meant solely for him. All his.
The bus pulls up. He boards, finds a seat near the girl, watches her intently. She plays with her phone and doesn't notice. Just a few more stops and he would be home. Keep it together. He spends the rest of the ride fixated on the muscles in her jaw as she chews her gum. She's so beautiful.
His stop, finally. Hers too. She jumps from the bus and into the arms of a man with a dark tan and a baseball hat.
He stomps past them and into his building. The elevator is still broken. He takes the stairs. It feels much longer than yesterday.
The lights flicker on in his apartment. He throws the keys on the table, but they slide and land on the floor. He makes no move to pick them up. He removes his cap, catches his reflection in the mirror by the kitchen. Four bold scars stand out on his forehead. He pulls the scarf from his throat. More scars. They disappear into his shirt collar.
He knows he will never be more than this. He knows nothing can redeem him. He takes his pill and sits on the edge of the couch. Tomorrow will not be different.
And neither will he.
But maybe he can pretend.