A Reach For The Grate
An elderly man’s fingers scraped against the wet brick sidewalk as an orange pill bottle slipped between the iron bars of a street drain.
Pears rolled from an overturned wicker basket into the gutter.
The man stretched his arm down toward the opening, but the container rested inches below his fingertips.
Tires rolled to a stop on the damp cobblestone behind him.
A chef stepped off an electric bicycle, resting the kickstand against the curb.
A pastry box sat secured in the wire basket over the front wheel.
He tapped the glass of his wristwatch, crouched down, and placed both knees onto the wet pavers.
Reaching Into The Mud
The fallen man pointed trembling fingers toward the storm drain slot.
The chef knelt lower, pressing his torso against the damp street surface.
He slid his right forearm down between the metal bars, into the dark sludge beneath the curb.
Black grime smeared across the crisp white fabric of his double-breasted uniform.
His fingers closed around the plastic cylinder resting in the wet leaves.
He pulled his arm back through the narrow gap, dragging wet muck across his tattooed wrist and sleeve.
He wiped the bottle with his thumb and held it out.
The older man gripped the plastic container against his chest with both hands.
The chef gripped the man’s arm, pulled him into a sitting position, and checked his hands for cuts.
The older man reached out, wrapping his fingers around the chef’s dirt-streaked hand.
The Empty Kitchen
Fluorescent bulbs flickered against the stainless-steel prep tables of the restaurant kitchen.
The chef stood holding the paper pastry box with two hands against his waist.
Dark street grease covered his white jacket and smudged across his cheek.
A woman in a dark green cook coat stood across from him, tapping her index finger against his chest.
She pointed a finger at the kitchen clock on the tiled wall.
The chef kept his chin dropped, shoulders curved forward, looking down at his worn work shoes.
She crossed her arms and turned her back toward the prep counter.
The chef carried the box out the back door into the evening light.
The Fruit Tart
A yellow kitchen light illuminated the round wooden dining table.
The chef sat on a wooden chair, dark grease still visible near his temple.
He pulled open the cardboard tabs of the pastry box, folding down the flaps to show a peach-topped tart.
His young daughter sat across the table, watching his hands untie the string.
Her eyes moved from the pastry up to the dark smears across his work shirt.
She placed both hands on his shoulders and leaned forward across the table edge.
Her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, pulling her cheek against his chest as he closed his eyes and held her.
Send this to someone who always chooses doing the right thing, even when nobody is watching.
