© David Vale
PAINT
Sid arrived earlier for work than normal, the place was silent. The years of doing the repetitive job had taken its toll. The cracks on the tiled floor mimicked the ones on his face. The paint on the ceiling looked like his sun-weathered arms. Night after night he came to the arcade and set up his tools of the trade. He was a young man when he started here; fresh faced, clean and youthful. These days he felt the years. Walking down the gallery he gazed at the evening stars through the arches. He would miss this place, the peace. He looked at the walls and sighed, it was only yesterday he had made them good as new. It had been an endless fight to keep the paint fresh. Each time he came, someone else came later. Each time he painted, someone else painted over it. It had been the council who decided the arcade would be closed off to stop the graffiti. Sid would be out of a job, but for tonight it was safe. He reached down, chose his colour and in large liquid like motions sprayed 'Sid was here'.
©Mills Laine
©Mills Laine
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