tainted ink

f o u r

"Being both soft and strong is a combination very few have mastered." -unknown

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l e i g h t o n

Dragging his feet on the pavement, he walks slowly through the bustling streets of Manhattan, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his coat.

The breeze whistles by and flutters the leaves that blanket the ground before his feet have the chance to nudge them out of the way.

People babble on cellphones and hurry through the streets, some gripping the hand of a child and some alone on the cool October night. Traffic lights blink to drivers and horns honk, the streets never silent. Shop windows display overpriced items and cast golden light onto the sidewalks. The sky would be sprinkled with stars, twinkling against the navy veil of the night sky, but the towering buildings mask it, their beauty only admired from parks.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it and presses on. A businessman bustles by, a bluetooth tucked in his ears as he nudges Leighton's shoulder.

Crossing the street, he shuffles through the cast iron gates of Central Park, the cobblestone path twisting and curving through the trees and boulders, The park is never empty, though the groups of walkers, site-seers, photographers, and nature lovers has reduce to a trickle, most gone home for the night.

He passes an array of different shop fronts, from clothes to toys to sweets. The windows are clouded with frost from the cold, the displays obscured. Tucking his hand into the sleeve of his coat, he rubs away the fog and peers inside; teddy bears and dolls and toy trucks perched on stools and tables. His lips curl into a smile, the memories of zooming his truck across the tiles until his mom scolded him for scratching the glossy surface slip into his mind and paint a picture before his eyes in the sparkling glass.

"Hey, bud, you gonna move?"

Nearly jumping out of his shoes, Leighton scampers out of the man's way and continues down the sidewalk, his nerves rattled.

He turns at the next flashing stop sign, casting a blood-red light across the pavement. His hands dig deeper in his pockets, seeking warmth. The frigid breeze nips at his cheeks and swims through his hair, the dark brown wisps catching the air. His tongue runs along his lips as he roams nearer to his destination.

The pair of chocolate eyes pinpoint the bookshop two doors down, the sign aged and worn, rust creeping up the edges like paint. The window fogged, but the display of classics; The Chronicles of Narnia, The Hobbit, To Kill a Mockingbird, A Christmas Carol, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, and many, many more still visible. His heart leaps as he scrambles for the gold tainted doorknob and creeks it open, shuffling inside. A bell jingles above as his boots thump against the crinkled hardwood.

With eyes alight and twinkling, he rushes to the classics section and plucks the first he sees off the dusty shelf: Charlotte's Web.

A series of thwaks bounce through the little bookshop.

"Leighton, is that you?" Mr. Oleman's deep and raspy voice reaches Leighton's weak ears. His mother has always been concerned, but what can she do?

"Yep!" he calls, tucking that novel under his arm and choosing another, which soon joins its companion.

Making his way to the musty, gray couch beneath the window, he waves the the shop keeper, who has known him since he was a baby. Mr. Oleman grins back, cresent wrinkles edging his mouth.

"Glad to see you here, though I can't say I'm surprised." He chuckles and stamps another book, a thud finding Leighton's ears.

"Nor I," he responds with a warming smile as he plops down on the couch, a cloud of dust billowing into the air as he situates himself.