Spirit Of The End

Dove #1

::Watching a man among others:: : :

While strolling on a bright summer day, he observed a dove nesting.

The nest was solid, with imperfections only the owner could notice. A mother dove, her ashen feathers embellished with white lines at the tips of her wings, was feeding her chicks, holding a meal in her mouth while the young feasted and cooed.

This was his first sighting since he changed his route from 1 to 3 for a longer but more pleasurable walk to work.

He had a great enthusiasm for all moving things. He noticed what could be forgotten by usual bystanders: the movement of cars in unison, the strange harmony they created at roundabouts. He saw them as a machine forming a swirling caterpillar.

He also had an interest in people's postures. His own formed an almost perfect half-arc from his spine to the dome of his cranium. Some tall people like him walked with their heads high, 'just like phoenixes,' he thought. To him, they were the kind of people who fully embraced their height, which gave them a unique air of confidence.

Even the blinking of the subway screen didn't pass him by; he marveled at how light processed through the pixels, creating a dance of information.

He walked slowly, burning the remaining half-hour until his shift started. His assiduity taught his colleagues that they would always finish their session 15 minutes early.

::

The shop looked as always; it ran on hand tech. The market kept the same giant companies rolling on top, so they always got similar-looking models in similar-looking colors, keeping the store template black with hues of dark blues and greens.

There was a particular camaraderie here; in the same way the companies rolled, the community did too, flipping on gears, like a 20% cashback on a dark blue DS for a rarer fresh-out-the-box DS Lite.

That was the circle of life around the same three used stores all year, including this one. No matter what, you ended up building a friendly relationship with all the customers, even those who didn't gawk at the latest PalmPilot.

For example, older folks who just wanted to reset their laptops so their kids could sell the junk for some Macintosh enthusiast to buy. The clients were mostly friendly. It wasn't like GameStop at all; here, it was just a small independent space that barely had an official name.

A run-down sign almost showed "Mac's Tech Repair." The design was so silly it looked like they bought it at an off-street shop in the tourism district.

Seriously, someone had to fix that dumb Comic Sans mess. The worst part wasn't even the bright yellow font but the cyber burger that accompanied it.

The owners loved it so much it even accompanied the mandatory shirt.

Obviously, he didn't like the attire; it simply wasn't his style. Yet he reveled in being part of a community, even just as an employee.

::

He sat silently, one headphone in his right ear. The weekend before he started another work week, he updated his MP3 player with hymns from around the world.

Recently, he's taken to Makossa, a musical genre known to have emerged in Douala, Cameroon.

The country is bilingual and has many dialects, but he is most familiar with the French regions. Electric bass and percussion create a rhythm that has him humming and tapping his feet.

He was ridiculously bad at dancing, so he learned to contract his muscles to make his movements less prominent. Just moving his feet became good enough—no head bobbing or shoulder shaking.

He'd been replacing microchips on a stack of Q107 Blackberries all morning. It had been pretty quiet since it was raining outside.

On the clock for quite a while now, it seemed the clouds had caught up. Normally people put their Mac's visit off until the next day with bad weather.

That's another reason this place was so calm; emergencies rarely occurred.

The shop was filled with the hum of electronic devices and the clacking of keyboards. The doorbell rang; someone was here. He moved his head later than he should have and faced a smiling girl, probably close to his age. She was wearing all pink, from her dress to her Converse. He wondered first where she could have found that pair but snapped back to his senses.

He waited for her to notice him. He smiled.

She'd been smiling ever since he noticed her. It was a nice smile with dimples. She was on the taller side but did not impose. He noticed her posture was curved into a half-arc like his own.

He felt as if he should be doing more than to observe her blanky.

Her presence emanated a distinct sense of wonder, reminiscent of the first time a child blows bubbles. After many failed attempts and tasting the soap, a perfect bubble finally forms, floating gracefully toward the sky. In that moment, the bubble, shimmering with reflected sunlight, twinkles in the daylight.

"Well, you see, I have this SD card here, but I can't seem to open it. I don't even know if it's feasible, but I'd love to see the images once more and save them this time," she explained. Her eyes were smiling; they weren't before.

He was being sloppy; he didn't hear the first part at all. The SD card was unique, shaded in pink.

At last, he spoke. "I can do it; I'll help you see those images again." Only then did he realize how strange that sentence sounded. She wasn't discouraged. In fact, it seemed to have made her happy. She had a notepad with a frog theme.

The notepad was cut out in the shape of a stylized frog face. He saw a lot of people like that, clinging to their cosmetics tooth and nail, but he'd never realized how much fun that was. Her nails were done—no extensions, but pastel blue coloring with a small heart-shaped cut stone on her pinkie. She inscribed her coordinates. Even her handwriting was cute, an evenly spaced bubble script, wonderfully easy to read.

She was leaving. There was one more thing he should say. Come on, speak.

"Your eyes, they're like the light reflected on the water." It took courage, but now he felt embarrassed.

Maybe she didn't hear. The door creaked shut, but he could swear for a moment she stopped and smiled just like she did when he first heard her voice.

____________________________________________________

<Redacted message recovered>

——- votes are appreciated ❤️——-

From: Music_Merlls

To: Reader