The Walker.
The day had been long. It had begun in greyness, wet windows and impatience; and this had continued until the hungry dark licked round the streetcorners and swallowed it.
Lights. high shiny oranges hung in the sky dropping their juice to light the dirty gutter that was littered with thrown plastic from the take-away just on the corner. The man who moved as if sleepwalking through the splashes of light spread on the sidewalk, was thin. Not stick-thin, but slender as a fine spring-wire that would rebound from being beaten against a wall or the stones of life.
A cat leaping from behind a trashcan flung forward in escape from a presumed extinction hit the moving legs of the man. He watched as it rolled scrabbling beneath the sad wreck of an old Plymouth lying untyred in its driveway. He seemed to feel for the cat as a hand was pulled from the heavy coat and went to reach out, palm down. The hand then turned palm up and curled back as if in acceptance of the spitefully hissed rejection of the cat, its tail a long black bottle-brush.
The cursing of the cat seemed to wake all the noises in the sky. The man lifted his head, now hearing police sirens gloating, faint bruisings of the dusk by other motors, taxis, limousines; the squirting of pizza delivery bikes unsilenced. The quiet man walked on, counting the paving slabs from faded hems of dirty light to the bright skirt of the next painted space; reflected gleams touching his high cheekbones and firm dimpled jaw. There seemed to be an aimless determination in the soft footsteps as if they knew where they were to go, but were reluctant to declare a firm intention. He had another hour of the long day to waste before he reached his home. Not a practised home like those he was walking past, with their tarmac sticking out dark coated tongues, sucking in the coloured sweets of cars.
His home was human. His home was merely another being who was going to be vomited forth from a turgid too-richly stuffed stomach of the theatre around that corner, central in the main square. The square which was busily revolving in the swirl and suck of headlights circling, seeking small corners in which to rest. The slim figure paused before leaving the anonymity of the small avenue down which he had lingered, as if afraid of the mashing mechanical frenzies. He seemed to have a reluctance that spoke of vulnerability, a fear of being unable to withstand this brilliance of pressures.
He waited, leaning against a broken sign that clung listlessly to the half-hanging doorframe. The wall was brick, saddened by weather and the acid from car exhausts and was skimmed with red powder on its dirty cheeks, which now secretely dusted the shoulder of the leaner's dark coat.
In a while, the man had allowed the butts of two cigarettes to slip away from his curved hands as if he was letting his used-up thoughts fall with them. His polished shoe had slid forward, lifted, and paused ... waiting for permission to kill this little tender fire, one ... then later, another.
The two butts lay now, side by side, sharing their deaths.
The theatre doors had opened, spewing forth light, noise, anger, laughter brittle as spun sugar, ordering whistles, white gloves waving. A horde of black cars scrambled, metal cockroaches scenting spiced nectars thrusting themselves forward to be opened, flustered, flashed with camera waste, and sent scurrying into the livid bright black.
Now the multitude had dispersed, the watchers and gaspers like body-mites had floated away leaving the theatre doors darkly blind, a toothless mouth wondering if there was more to spew.
The man moved silently forward, smoothly, in a dance of co-ordinated well-used muscles, barely stirring the air.
From the sooty throat of the theatre another figure took shape, resting, sensing; waiting on the top step. He was tall, but tired, which gave him an air of being bigger, more solid than the nearing person. His handsome head lifted like a dog scenting its master. This man gave a smile that lit the darkness, then bounded down the steps in greeting, his pale hands reaching out from his dark-suited arms.
The two figures met, melded into darkness, greyblack, blackgrey, the pale oval softnesses of faces hidden in the upturned collar of black wool.
The walker had come home.
Summary: It's just .. a wondering....
Rated: G
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 745 Read: 266
Published: 31 May 2012 Updated: 31 May 2012