Lemonada

Thunder

Nervously, he made his way to the intersection from the Anchor Cow. An haunting melody could be heard cavorting its way to his ears from a panpipe-wielding woman that was seated on a lawn of freshly-mowed grass. When the traffic light flickered green, he strolled across the road towards the busker, listening zealously to the woman's rhythmic breathing pattern and her soothing trills. Her coiled hair was streaming down over her face like a dynamic waterfall, and blowing just slightly to the right due to warm gusts of air. It was an otherworldly moment, encapsulated in one compelling spell of a series of do-re-mi's. 

He tore his eyes off of the scene, and headed straight towards the park, his ears absorbing every single detail that the woman took care to arrange in her song. It was a siren's call, enticing him back into the woman's growing audience. For a flicker of a second, he even thought that the song was getting louder. 

Strenuously, he tore himself away from the entrancement. The woman's voice was now just a distant whistle in the breeze. 

After a few minutes of traipsing mindlessly in the park, in what seemed like circles, the man finally came upon an array of little booths. There was a peddler selling cheap watches, and another selling useless but eye-catching souvenirs. The third booth was covered with a pastel yellow tarp, and had a flimsy banner strung from each end with the title: LEMONADE. A burly red-bearded man stood guarding precariously, smiling cheekily from ear to ear. 

"Lemonade for sale! Only one dollar!" He called out cheerfully, his smile stretching further up his face like a crescent moon. A child passing by was pulled away by her frustrated father.

The man approached the smiling vendor with ease. He stood there for a few minutes before Frank acknowledged his presence. 

"Lemonade is only one dollar! Good for any day!" Frank held out a hand expectantly, waiting for what the man supposed was change. 

"Frank?" He asked suddenly, surprised by his unexpected attempt at a conversation.

The muscular man stroked his beard, crinkling his forehead in pure astonishment. "Yes?" 

"I know Tom," the man blurted out, cautiously averting his gaze with Frank. They both waited patiently although neither uttered a single word.

Nearby, a white butterfly hovered around, desperately trying to escape the grasps of a tittering infant.

"I- lemonade stand," the man stuttered. He pointed at the stand, shying away from Frank's insolent gape. 

The bearded man loomed over him with a disapproving scowl. He stood so close that the man could feel his humid breath on his own cheeks.

"Listen," Frank thundered, "this is MY lemonade stand, and I earned it through hard labour! I don't know who you think you are but I'm going to ask you to leave!" He was reddening like a thermometer, from the bottom of his neck all the way to his forehead. Almost barbarian-like, the lemonade vendor was an enraged Viking, standing his ground against a peasant. "If you don't leave, I'm going to have to call the cops on you," he threatened, the whites of his eyes showing.

The man tripped backwards, and surrendered his hands into the air. He fled the scene, tail between his legs while the burly man pumped his fist in the air and hurtled insults at him. 

"Yes that's right! Run, you nameless coward."

Pedestrians were avoiding the stand, peering at it with contempt although nobody had stepped in to fend for the man. Frank had caused quite the scene, and those on a carefree stroll were not in the least pleased with his tumult.

The man walked away, hunched over in contemplation of his status in all of this situation. He had been promised an opportunity but that, he had realized was an hoax. It was his fault for getting washed away so easily, by being swept up into the waves of deception without a single cry for help. He dabbed away a single ludicrous tear with the palm of his hand. 

Nameless, he had been called. He had once had a name that others referred to him by. It was a name that was bestowed upon him by his mother, a name that was long forgotten and left aside. 

Aden. 

The man had never needed it. After the passing of his mother, nobody had ever vocalized his name and he had preferred it that way. Nobody ever called him with the same mellifluous tone as his mother had, and he never wanted anybody to do so. Her voice was like the gentle plucking of harp strings, and enticing like a lullaby. Hearing it would only make his heart crumble, and pollute his mind with dastard reminiscence of other, more heart-wrenching times.  

He would require a name. To be defamed as nameless was to shun his existence, and he did not quite enjoy the idea of being completely invisible. In the past, he had never needed to be acknowledged but the present was a different story. Names were a privilege to those with the luxury of being an asset to society. A respectable high-class name would demand respect. It would forge a fake identity for him in which he would have importance. He needed a name. 

"Charles!" A woman could be heard hollering, somewhere from behind him in the crowd. "Charles, Charles, it's me!" Her voice was insistent, almost desperate and getting closer. "Charles!" 

The man annoyedly glanced behind to see a young lady with blond curls tapping his shoulder frantically. "Charles-" she began before noticing his vexed and somewhat unfamiliar features. "Oh my, I'm so sorry," she rumbled, "I've mistaken you for someone else. My this is awkward, I am so sorry". The girl blinked blankly, and then vanished somewhere into the mass of heads.

Charles, he pondered. What a fancy name, one befitting of a notable prospering man.