RICO

He stands outside the library, on the front steps, which seems an odd place to sentry because the library is such a community, social place and not only can’t he read, he doesn’t feel part of any community. He’s dressed in a gray, hooded sweatshirt, hood pulled up, but not covering his face, head and eyes up, not down so that his visage is blanked by a shadow like some are. He smokes a cigarette and in a moment will offer a drag to a friend who, as if dropping by an office, stops by to visit for a moment. His name is Enrique, his baptized name. His friends, of course, call him Rico. For Rico, the world is as gray as his hoodie. He saw colors as a boy, when he was at home with his mother and brothers and sisters, but that was a long time ago. The color did not go easily. He did not let go of them easily. But he came to a point, at a point, that it was all useless, futile. And he quit trying to see the reds and yellows and greens and oranges. His world would never, again, be bright. He doesn’t think much about it, now, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t always with him. It is. Wouldn’t it be with you? In fifteen minutes – more like 13, if we’re being exact – Rico will drop what’s left of the smoke, crush the still glowing ember with his right toe, then leave his post. He will head home, such as it is, now, where two friends, Tony and Helli, wait, sleeping. They too, live in monochrome. And they know it. What they don’t know is that the revolution is coming. It won’t be their salvation. But it will return some color. If only they can survive until then.