An alleyway stood beside a retail store once, Jim walked toward a glass box. It encased cigarette packs, a Gatorade, a Rolling Stone magazine all set against an Ocean’s Twelve poster backdrop that embraced the back of the box. Jim brought it, and carried on.
As his feet reached curves and corners of market squares, the street came to an end. It was followed by a bridge that led to another street, by this point he felt tired. It was the finale of his enthusiasm or so it seemed. Advertisements wavered on billboards about perfumes, and festivals. Pick-up trucks drove by with all their trashy glory bound to the back. A taxi hammered in from nowhere and escorted him home, the driver twisted his head, cracked his knuckles, crossed his legs, and somehow matched the movements of his vehicle.
Jim placed the box of December on the high shelf, amid stacks of birthday cards that he didn’t give, or maybe he received them, among his prized vinyl records and a lavender scented candle that glowed all it slight in yesterday’s dark, now flickered with a tiny flame on its miniature wick and melted body.
“Another year” he admired, knocking his body down to floor.