Graffiti
He had a roll of cash in his pocket, and his ears were tuned to the beat on the street. He danced across the avenue as if his lithe, young body was swaying to the music of destiny.
It was payday, and the charge in the air kicked at his heels and spurred his momentum.
He dove among the jostling, teeming crowd and they pulled him forward involuntarily. A liquid, flowing movement spilled over the apron of the pavement towards the mall.
The mall rose like a jewel, as if levitating on an expiring cloud of steam; the sweat and hope that whirled off the human mass fighting for identification within.
The mall was a wonder to behold. An edifice of sky-high glass that spoke of the wonders inside. He forced himself to look at it in all its glory and his imagination conjured the aroma wafting from the cozy, chrome coffee shops and the stone-fired pizza ovens that populated the square.
He could almost taste the soothing, delicious fare, but he held himself fast. He looked, but did not enter, there.
But the perfumed persuasion plagued his mind and in its recesses he saw the book shop he’d visited before. He knew all the wonders that it held. He’d seen it, he’d been inside. He wished he could touch the pages of the books; just touch, not buy, but he didn’t trust himself.
So he swung on by.
He had rent to pay and needed to attend to a broken pipe that threatened to flood his flat. The larder was bare and the light bulbs were fused. The books beckoned, but he knew his duty was to pay his bills.
Bills or treasure, his mind was confused.
He chanced a backward glance. The crowd had thinned, dissipated at the entrance to the shopping mecca. He hung his head and walked at an even pace. Now, there was enough space to swing his arms, to turn left or right, to make a decision about his flight.
He got as far as the street that led into his apartment block. He made it all the way there and his legs were tired, he could feel the effort, the sacrifice that they’d made.
He stood on the sidewalk and watched the evening drift in. He noted each square in the apartment block as lights flicked on. The sky turned yellow, then gold, but still he lingered, he did not fold.
But as his eyes became accustomed to the dark he saw a neon glow rise in the air at the end of a slim, delicate pen. The pen skittered across the bricks and mortar of his land and wrote exquisite poetry in verses and lines that soon covered the walls end-to-end of all that he beheld. Like graffiti on speed, scrawling words where there was nothing before.
Of course it was sorcery. He knew that, and it brought joy to his lips.
He was delighted by the display.
Then he blamed it on magic and went back to the heart of his desire where the open books lay.