He was a middle-aged tree trunk in tight black slacks with his stomach rolling over the beltline. His hair was a perfect round bubble of light curly frizz so thin I could’ve blown on it like a late season dandelion and watched it flutter away. He looked startled when he turned and saw me.

I was just roaming around the large plaza outside of the tall office building where I work, smoking the first of my two cigarettes a day. He fixed his eyes back on the four young boys that were skakeboarding, each one trying to accomplish their night’s trick with exhausting repetition. The youngest was probably around nine, the oldest about eleven or twelve.

“I see these kids every day,” I said when his attention went back to the boys. I said it to make him comfortable, although I can’t imagine why I cared.

“Yeah.” He didn’t take his eyes away from them. I watched with him for a second, then made a step toward the door to my building.

He turned to me again, and said, “See? They’re going for the olly. I was good at the olly. I bet I could show them a better way to do it.” He turned his attention back to the kids.

“You probably could,” I said. He quickly turned and walked away in the opposite direction of the boys. My eyes followed him, and when he thought he was out of eyesight, he turned my way again, looking at me. He sped away.

I stubbed out my smoke, hoping that man would never get near enough to those boys to show them a better way to do their trick.

Tags: tiny tales