What time is it?

March winds funneled through the skyscrapers of Chicago, carrying an incessant chill from off the Lake Michigan waters, and churned along street corridors, slammed into people, muscled through scarves, between buttons, under overcoats.

I struggled against the elements for a quick breakfast at McDonald's, in a city I detest for the very reason that blasted at every inch of exposed skin. Though a beautiful metropolis, I shook my head in wonder at the foolhardiness that keeps people here day in, day out. I prefer tourist status to that of city dweller. I understand adaptation as theorized by Darwin, and key indicators seem to prove his theorem. Yet, as I struggled mightily for a crispy hash brown, and possessed a lover's longing for a steaming cup of coffee, I doubted my ability to adapt to these harsh surroundings.

Inside I tried to shake off the chill as a dog shakes water from its coat. I joined the queue, quiet and expressionless, like the others. I ordered, paid, the food appeared as though by magic, and I slid away to a small seat toward the back. A man in a business suit, dark purple tie, and amazingly polished shoes, spoke into a cell phone between bites of pancakes. Impeccably dressed in a rainbow of colors, a woman nibbled her breakfast sandwich while devouring a romance novel splashed with large red lettering: Virgin in Paradise.

Unwrapping my McMuffin, I glanced through the window, and watched the parade of locals tramp expertly through gargantuan gusts, heads bowed, firm, precise footsteps, coats and wrappings nipped and tucked. I bit into my breakfast, turning back to the warm and familiar McDonald's atmosphere. I am surprised to see a lady plopped into a seat one table over. With her head tucked, looking at her small, garishly white tabletop, rocking slightly and muttering, I knew instantly what she was. A homeless person.

Inexplicably, I felt desecrated and my guard went up. She did not look at me, only stared outside, at the same parade I was watching a moment before. She wore bib overalls, with a long sleeve shirt, but no coat, and I realized she was trying to leave some of the March coolness in her body at this warm corner of the restaurant, and though I begrudged her close presence, violating some inner sense of safety, a security blanket wrapped invisibly about me, I understood her basic need for shelter. She would shortly be chased from here by the female security guard. No problem, I said to myself, as long as she stays to her-

"What time is it?"

Confused, I did not know if the question were directed to me, or perhaps some one else, so I looked hesitantly in her direction, and two large, unbelievably dark eyes bore into my own. Sadness and despair seemed bottomless in these small ponds of murkiness, and I flinched inside. Her face, however, was the face of a clown. She had applied heavy patches of pink rouge on each cheek, spreading far back and almost touching her ears. Lipstick seemed drawn on as though by a young child experimenting with mom's shiny tube of lip gloss, and while the jagged blood-red lines looked menacing in themselves, the entire effect of makeup and large, questioning eyes gave an unintentional comic aura.

I wondered how she could afford make-up, why meager earnings begged from the parade marchers or scrounged from gritty gutters would be spent on such spurious goods, but I realized it was none of my business. Marches to her own drummer, I told myself. On her own parade route. Just don't ask anything of me.

Then I remembered she had asked something of me, and I glanced at my watch.

"7:20," I said quietly, and quickly broke eye contact. I feared a longer response would be an open invitation, a welcome mat to come into my life, break bread with me, ask for things and favors I could not possibly deliver.

"Hmm." She grimaced, as though realizing she was late for an appointment. Looking away, she muttered again and withdrew a pint bottle of liquor. Schnapps, apparently. I realized it was her coat, worn inside, to ward off the cold, Chicago winds. She took a large swallow.

Replacing the bottle in a large front pocket she sighed. I looked at her impossibly large eyes once more, and then she rose. Slouched and sputtering gibberish, she shuffled out the door, into the wind and morning grayness, marching in a parade of one.

Slowly chewing, I pondered her simple request. If she had asked for money, I would have given her a few coins, a small price to have her vacate my privacy. But what could time mean for her? Maybe street time has a different meaning, like certain heat grates that become available at particular times? Free meals offered only at specific minutes of each morning? Something somewhere meant enough to her that she stepped out into the harsh world again.

The bottle would warm her for a bit, or numb the senses so chill and pain and hopelessness were driven away, if only for brief moments. There was such profound sadness in her eyes, but also something bordering on desire. To take another step, hoping for a miracle around the next corner? A longing to live, for wouldn't the alternative, even among those most mired in quiet desperation, be unthinkable?

Was there more to the sadness in those murky eyes? A reflection of all the compassion missing from her life? And what of my compassion? It had been replaced by my annoyance at her for invading my safe, warm world as a pitiful, clown-faced reminder of all its shortcomings. I had refused to hold out my hand as a simple sign of comfort and mercy. I had failed one of the least of Christ's children. Was the state of this cold, bitter world my fault, and that of mister shiny-shoes and the romance novel lady?

My mind often wanders to the woman with messy, red lipstick who wanted simply to know what time it was. Time for reflection, I suppose. Time for compassion and love and warmth for all, I should have told her. Certainly, it is time for regrets.