The bright red plastic straw lay around the bend, right near the diner where it fell two hours earlier from a later disappointed man. It contrasted the usual stained pattern of the city’s sidewalk: an asymmetrical arrangement of embossed bubblegum. A child had kicked it, aiming for the sewage, but a young man’s foot had blocked the shot.
He had picked it up, bright eyed, as if he had never seen a straw in his life. He deftly twirled the straw in the crooks of his finger before he placed one side to his eye. He seemed very amused and smiled, almost child like. The straw had been touched by the young man’s Midas mind, transforming from a straw into a telescope of sorts. The evening was befitting to the fury of the tunnel view, the sherbet sunset melting, like wax, on rooftops and alleys of the battery city. It had only been a few moments before he had cleared his throat and laughed silently to himself before tucking the straw away into his back pocket.
I thought about how wondrous it would be to take in the cool evening one piece at a time. The straw did a favor to the small details, the few hues, the cracks and smudges that made up the city. It gave spotlight to the small details that are forgotten and unaccounted for, as they are too busy making up the city scape we had all grown to love and cherish over all these years.