@birdbcnes
An old man asks him for directions to the nearest post office. He wears a floppy denim hat with sewn-on patches. Bought patches, knitted in like a pro. The old man is nearing his sixties, with crows’ feet overlapping crows’ feet on his eyes and on his mouth, and he wears a purple and yellow Hatchet Man patch like he’s proud of it. Roland takes it as a Sign.
The door clinks against a little bell fastened near the ceiling as it opens, and Roland ducks and looks up as it jingles. The neon lights hum like little angry bees, frightfully buzzing as if their life depended on it, and the stink of herbal rubs and medicinal spreads cloy in his nostrils. He sniffs, uses both hands to push his hood off his head, ratty and dirtied as his coat and clothing. He shuffles inside, gently closing the door so it won’t make a loud sound.
The lights, with their gritty, ticking sounds, shine against his head like the burst of the sun, and glisten against the natural oils in his hair, glints off the glass beads woven in. A white piece of bone protrudes from behind his left ear, from the thatch of curling hair and he looks nervous, anxious, keenly aware of his unnatural fashion, even in a place of bright individuality and shining artistry. He clears his throat gently, and places his fingertips on the counter, as if afraid to fully lay his palms against it.
He waits for someone to notice, to offer aid, and he stands patiently, fingers barely touching the counter’s surface.
