Ficlets

He used his middle fingers. The very tips of those unmanicured digits caressing the parallel buttons almost sweetly. That dumb look on his face, I’ll never forget it. I’d stand there for hours, marveling as the points wracked up. A million was practically nothing—he’d accomplish it with only one, perfect metallic sphere.

With every tilt, with every buzz, his frame would jerk and sway. An interpretive dance. In these ways he was a musician, sending his machine into all manner of bleeps and taps while controlling the crescendo of crowd excitement. The gathered audience of around forty or fifty would actually applaud at times. I remember distinctly a girl, all of fifteen years, staring at him as a lone tear ran down her face.

Curiosity got the best of me once, and I asked him what he did when he wasn’t playing. He even answered, though I couldn’t hear him over the noise of the place. I’ll never know, I guess. But sometimes I imagine him as a dancer, or an actor. Someone of professional beauty.