Hope?

Of Monday's Man Found by the Fountain


His hands reach slowly into his pocket, fishing for a coin while keeping his steady gaze on the papers before him. He moves the coin expertly across the slips, back and forth in short, even motions. Queen Elizabeth flickers in the fading sunlight streaming through the windows behind him, her face the only shining thing on his person.

He stops and looks over what he's done. Slowly, once, twice, he allows his crinkled eyes to move over each row. He breathes in, exhales, wipes the table and pushes the slip aside. With the same actions as before, with the same coin, he moves onto the second, this time approaching it with an air of weariness. He takes his time, putting off what deep down he knows is behind those waxy little boxes under that glinting gold.

With two large sweeps of his mangled, well-veined hand, he wipes the remains off the second slip. Adjusting his yellowed, thick rimmed glasses, he then places both hands firmly on either side of the paper and looks it over, hoping, wishing...

But of course, there is nothing. Just as he cannot find the means to buy a proper coat, his current one dusty, tattered, and oversized, he is unable to find redemption in the little numbers Queenie has revealed to him.

Folding his precious slivers of hope together, he tucks them into his pocket, gets up gingerly from his seat, rubbing his feeble knees, goes over to the desk, and waits patiently for his turn. He gets up to the clerk, smiles a weary smile, and asks for two more.