Last night as I toured the renovated Virra Mall--I swear part of it looked like it belonged in Podium-- with Honey, I noticed a simple and profound event unfolding in a drugstore. Standing out in that morass of prefab creativity was a salesclerk, furtively drawing, ah, "Flowers of Love" on a cheap ledger. At least that was what the bold text, done in black ink, said the drawing was.
She noticed me noticing her, and then she tried to hide the work in progress with her back. Too bad for her, I had stalker training to fall back on. I had already taken a good look at the red ink flowers coming into bloom under her struggling, rather kitsch pen. I felt like materializing in my usual creepy way within her personal space and giving her a few drawing pointers, but I thought the better of it.
She's under enough pressure already, engaging in non-work on the sly. Nice to know that dreams still grow in barren soil.
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