Bustling with case and bag, coat slung over shoulder, the man treaded begrudgingly alongside the street. His dress shoes made a smooth contact with pavement as he passed up and to a Post Office, which was old and refurbished.
This Post Office was especially important. The significant place where the man entered every morning after awaking and departing from his small complex on the 5th Avenue, just four blocks from the Post Office, was burdened with his compromise to complete daily routines. A faint push with the forearm to open the door that was made of a heavy hickory material and decorated with a large rectangular pattern; inside of it was an array of squares. Quaint and small. Upon entering there was a wall-to-wall countertop of the same hickory as the door. There was a once shimmer and polished floor, now dulled with scuffs and scratches, a touch of shades darker than the door he knew so well. A coat hanger he voluntarily bestowed the honor to hold his coat upon, and a few chairs that carried the faint odor of musk to the right and left. A stingy, dying potted plant sat in a corner. A father clock grounded the coffee grounds of time mercilessly in its hands, and if customers forgot to graze over their peripherals when entering, its presence would be startling.
Every detail was pointless, to turn over like stones in his mind. The décor of the room equated to the centerpiece of this company. Redundancy. Patches of yellow exploded like egg yolk, contrast against the diamond pattern wallpaper. Framed fireworks of nature, green stems and vivid pigment. Something like a Post Office took him so much work to actualize in his mind, tugging the site away from disassociation. It was a cold Tuesday morning, collecting above the metropolis of Baltimore in a thick, gushing haze. The sun existed in the frames. The Post Office, he consecutively pointed out, needs an adequate heater for this weather. Every time the secretary poised to write an endless amount of work on parchment would shake her head, and accented cooly, replies "We don' have the money."
"Is that so?"
Reaching into his pocket, he slid out the necessary amount of change to provide himself with a set of twenty stamps and ten envelopes. A large, clunky handful. The coins rested on the counter. His hands always smelt terrible after words. Touching the vile cash was the sacrifice an artist and a writer must make sometimes.
"Ya, hun. If you got such a problem with it, and if ya' don't quit your whinin' every morning, how 'bout you pay the bills for a heater in here, hm? That'd be splendid," Miss Pellein tacked onto her already saccharine statement. Miss Pellein was a feisty secretary. He liked her.
"I would rather pass," his lips curved into their usual stoic smile. A smile that was no more real than the happiness presented in buttercups, cooped up in a box, on the corner street of a smoky city.
"Suit yourself, but that's the last time I hear zilch come outta you." He took the parchment wrapped package, securing the bow of wire thin string before popping open his case. Dropped inside, case clicked shut. His cap was tipped, her glasses pushed back up as he touched the door, like always.
And he left, like always.
It was a cold Tuesday morning, collecting above the metropolis of his mind in a thick, gushing haze. Arthur Kirkland wasn't particularly different today. Neither was he yesterday, or the day before. Bland hazel eyes and simpleton dirty blonde hair hasn't been altered in any way.
Next? His journey of a passive work day. Not too rainy, a drizzle, so he left his ratty coat hanging on his shoulder.