Rochelle Strongarm
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Devil in the Details
It’s the not the kind of alley that’s seen much skipping. It’s the kind you pass through quickly - if you must at all - with eyes down. Willing yourself invisible, your peripherals on high alert. A street you don’t want to be alone in. Pungent smell of piss and smoke and stagnant, moldy water. Yet it’s skipping that Mack is most certainly doing. He can’t help himself. His feet carry him. He skips, glides, spins and jumps. At times he has to stop and theatrically yoink back up his oversized pants, as their frayed and greasy half-cuffs scrape the bitumen with an especially boisterous bounce. He’s meandering all over, yet he knows where he’s headed. Where else to go when one has Very Big News, but to the object of your heart’s desire. He rounds the corner. Her familiar, half-bored scowl elicits in him an involuntary grin somehow wider than his ears. She rolls her eyes as she sees him make his bee-line and makes to move to the far side of the stall. He has anticipated this move, and heads her off with a grin he didn’t think could get any wider.
By Rochelle Strongarm5 years ago in Psyche
