Time For Thought

Wait, he stopped, running's only going to make me look even more suspicious.

Coming to a screeching halt, Boris whistled a tune and shifted to a casual walking pace. He whipped his head about inconspicuously. It was a competent shopping plaza, not as packed as the mall, with variety stores and clothing shops alike. There were a collection of cars and families going store to store and stepping out mom-and-pops, but no one seemed to notice him.

Boris breathed a sigh. It helped he was on the far end, by the street. Where, as far as everyone else was probably concerned, he likely should stay.

"This shit's gonna screw with my inner vibe radius," he muttered as he finally approached the shaded sitting area. He took a seat.

Boris had been around this part of the city enough times before. He really didn't need another one.

During hot days, people would scuttle about, donning their frilly attire and spewing out jokes with their cookie-cutter pals. Boris often took to the little public patio in the corner. It provided him shade, distance, and partial shelter; partial because of the few instances he'd brushed with security. Supposedly for creeping on people.

But he would never do something like that! Pft, how preposterous!

(And truthfully, he was only asking for some honest-to-goodness change that time. The one occasion he had been creeping on a woman, her husband was secretly flirting with one of the waitress. He was tempted to ask for a trade-off, before the woman came over armed with her purse and slapped him upside the head with it.)

Shaking his head, the homeless fellow thought back to moments earlier. Speaking of infidelity, what was that all about? The way that beaut had rushed out of the restaurant he had been about to carelessly solicit in. Then how she zeroed in on tongue-in-a-knot. Then how she really put his tongue in a knot. Then whoa, missus, take it easy, you're giving the man a heart attack.

He shook his head again, rubbing his meat through his pants.

That was so wrong.

Also, what had happened between him and those three mall-brats. That was pretty wrong.

A car vroomed by. Then a young blonde walking her dog walked past while texting on her phone and sat on a nearby ledge.

Okay, so it was a little worse. Whatever, he wasn't St. Boris. He was Just Boris, Boris the Beggar With The Big Dick And Sometimes Boyish Urges Spit On By Pretentious Fuckers So Hey, Take That, Warren Buffet, And Shove It.

One hand stroked his beard follicles.

But, was it all connected, somehow? That was the mystery, the puzzle of the day. His daily crossword.

Mentally, Boris retraced his steps. Above his churning head thronged the chirps of year-end birds, just passing through the continental west. One landed on his table, pecking some crumbs from the glass. Boris turned to it, feeling the slight brush of solid material over his ear, and he came to a revelation.

"The earrings," he plucked one out and let it lie on the palm of his hand.

Well well well, rich fucker driving rich fucking car with gold digging women on two arms -- pearls before swine didn't always turn out the way you thought it would, did it?

The clunk! of the box rattling against his forehead still burned in his memory. The vagabond, however, started to realize just how fortuitously the pieces had fallen in his favor. Was this kismet? Destiny? A second chance given to him for that good deed he did 25 years ago?

"N," Boris flipped the earring around, the letter bumbling out of his lips. "'N'... why 'N'?" He murmured to himself as the bird flew off and he sat back in the chair, still unable to believe the implications of his deduction. "Am I tripping? Or on cloud fucking 9?"

Swish. The door to the adjoined store opened, the sound of a chirpy female voice saying goodbye lapsing through the crack of the entrance. Boris quickly began to pocket his valuables.

"But moom."

"No buts, young lady."

Wait, he stopped. A delightfully scenery-improving duo exited the building, including a girl in dolphin shorts and a form-fitting t-shirt that looked barely 18 with who he presumed was her mother.

Maybe he could test this... 'theory' out. His eyes trailed up the girl's smooth pair of legs and robust body, then to her prim mother in her white blouse and pencil skirt, and stirred.

After all, when a group of guinea pigs walked into your lap...

...you welcomed 'em.