Pebble Meets Pavement
The initials are A.D.D. for a reason.
He was ejected from the womb without the gene for an attention span. Which is why undercover work is so riveting. Because he only needs to focus for a short time on a variation of life not his own. It's a version of fun, the living brag of a creative man with time. Who hasn't bolstered their truths to match a desired impression? He does Y job for X dollars with Z success. Every time he meets a girl at a bar, he tells the tales wrong, squeezes out the juicy stuff for her consumption.
It's fulfilling. Until it isn't.
Which is when he drinks for misery rather than company. But even that is short-lived because he lacks the foundation for suffering long. He's not a brooder. Such a personality defect requires more concentration than he can spare. Change is the cure and he sets about swapping companions, games, results, expectation.
So much variety on the playground.
He plays hopscotch with women. There's something in the tossing of the stone, the chance and happenstance of fate and gravity, that yells to his inner child from across the playground. The sparse specks of adulthood in him plots to hop over the bad. But obstacles vie for the chance to trip him up, wrecking his pace. Too many errant throws and the way becomes impassible. The game is abandoned but never for long.
There's always a new playmate ready to redraw the squares.
Still, skilled players can't fight the one unchangeable element; time. The march of minutes means the theft of youth, of vigor. The stone he uses to mark spaces grows heavy, too bulky to aim correctly. It prefers the stagnant safety of the ground, watching the world pass overhead. The older he gets, the more he understands the sentiment. Pride dictates that what age has made into a boulder be hefted to remain viable.
Except gravity despises him.
He wonders if anyone else has noted that the chalk lines are fading with overuse. The speed of his responses slow, the hunt for the open square requiring all the squinting of a child facing the setting sun. The spectators will judge him. The participants will rate him. And it's possible that his membership to the pavement club is due to be revoked. But if life has run out of reliable pebbles, he'll have to make the most of the final toss.
One last time he prepares to guide the arc, follow the bounce and wait for the landing.
The rock is thrown. Someone catches it. And it never hits the ground.