16 September 2009

Stark.

The deposit had gone through. The paper proof was in his hand. His name was there, among those of others, and it occurred to him how long it had been since he had last read his full name in print. He squinted at the four compact portions of ink.

He read the statement through twice before folding it up and tucking it into his wallet. He had expected himself to be a difficult conversion, and was surprised to find the brief document to be enough. He believed.

His faith sealed, he rejoined the city. It had not changed. He tried to place new meaning into the obvious symbols (the waning sun, the crisp air) but failed miserably. Instead of being able to see things anew, he was only capable of fine tuning his usual, tepid manner of observation. He saw the smaller specks of dust that floated within rays of sunlight. The cooler pockets of air that one occasionally encounters on a breezy day were colder by a couple more degrees. Annoyed by these useless details he began to walk. He was homebound for a block or so. Then it became necessary to deviate, go searching for a new experience that would more properly align with the monumental event that had taken place.

He considered a bar, and passed it by without breaking his stride. He did not want to be seen by a familiar face, someone who might be able to detect a change in his demeanor before he himself could. He would consider it to be a handicap. He regarded the sun, the specks of dust, and decided to return when the sun began to set. He crossed the next street with vigor, feeling better now that he had been, once again, assigned a place to be and a moment to arrive at.