Foiled

Tattered.

Blown by the wind, all the way down Long Acre.

Trodden up Mercer Street, adhered by recently spat gum to the sole of a shoe.

Scraped against a step and now detached.

Again it catches the wind,

the little scrap of silvery foil.

Stephan finished the bar of chocolate ten minutes ago. Threw the wrapper in the bin,

missed. He’s back at his desk.

Typing.

Frowning at his screen, pretending to work.

Now, eleven minutes later, the foil catches the light and glints in it.

Stephan’s line manager looks over and sees him busy, scowling at his screen, and he taps his foot without thinking,

and streets away another sole treads down on the foil,

flattening it,

sculpting it,

ready for take off.

The wind.

Oscillating,

It shudders the foil lightly against the pavement,

another sole dodged

and its lifted, glinting for a moment,

and Stephan’s brows furrow busily.

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