Guard

The room is so quiet you can hear everything

A young professional with a leather purse brushed by him. A man in a black beanie, wearing a pea coat and headphones, walked inches in front of him. An older couple griped about the evils of technology, but did not give him a glance.

He stood there, eyes wide open, surveying the passersby. The bulletproof vest weighed upon his shoulders. He rocked back and forth on his heels—changing position to help him cope with standing hours on end. He stood in front of the city bank. The revolving doors let the rushing people out like a gushing faucet.

"At least the sun sees me," mused the guard.

Just then, a middle-aged man in black sneakers and a purple crewneck, worn inside out, crossed the street. His eyes found the guard—the faucet of people swallowed by their own lives, the sidewalks swept by sparkles.

"How are you?" asked the middle-aged man, his eyes gently resting upon the guard.

"I'm… I'm, ah, fine," he replied as rays of sunshine glimmered against his bright white teeth. "Have a blessed day."

The purple sweatshirt disappeared into the pitter-patter of footsteps and silhouettes.

The sun shone from all angles.

A story by Pemba Umoja