The Blue Man | Samuel and Fen
The scent was as crisp as the pressed, blue shirt the man had on. Not much older than Fen, the man nevertheless held an air of authority, one that couldnβt be mustered from Fenβs slackened posture complete with one ankle over his thigh and only his upper back clinging onto the chairβs backrest.Β
βCrap,β Fen muttered, his mouth now slack around the straw of his cotton candy frappuccino as he watched the policeman order. Laying down both the drink and the cook book he got from the library, Fen scowled. Blue men always meant trouble. Gossamer cuffs stung his wrists and the spectral floor of juvie cleaved his cheek, fights against other kids convicted of other crimes trashed in him, and the deaf blue men studied him, observing, waiting for a chance to catch him again. Fen hunched over the small table, his fist holding up his head, his eyes scanning the room. It was the morning rush, and Starbucks was teeming with people in which the stench of perfume and aftershave lingered in the air like coffee beans and pastry sweets being advertised as a βhealthy breakfast.β Fenβs eyes thinned. βCrap.β
Only two seats were open for the blue man. One: next to a lady with a nauseating amount of perfume. Two: the seat across from him, always empty as courtesy of his sharp eyes.
Fen stood to leave, suddenly motivated to end his break early.
Grabbing his book, he used his apron and wiped the table.
