He was white. Of course he was white. Stood on the concourse above Muffin Break. About fifteen years old, although I'm no judge of these things. It wasn't his whiteness that I spotted first though; I think it was his clothing. Yes. Definitely his clothing. I don't even know where you go to buy clothes like this. Somewhere deep in the land that taste forgot, anyway. A land not so very far, far away; a land where natural fibres are unknown; where static lights up the night sky like the aurora borealis; a land where one size fits all because that size is XXXXL and they have a very loose interpretation of the word "fits".
He's tall and thin, and the moonscape of his pale skin glows gently in the artificial light of the shopping centre. He has a stooped, simian gait; the bandy shape of his arms and legs clearly visible in spite of their swaddling of luridly branded leisurewear. He is accessorised: a saggy baseball cap is perched at the very crown of his skull, peak deeply curved and artfully askew. Brightly plated base metal chains hang from his neck, and huge rings drip from his fingers.
He idly smooths the soft hair on his upper lip and sniffs.
I pass at a comfortable distance. He doesn't even look at me. Why should he?
The future is his and he knows it.
Alcohol-Free Beers (Part Fourteen)
9 hours ago