Member-only story
The Rare Power of Words
A conversation with the man himself.
As I hustled among the city crowd, I noticed a man in a charcoal black trench-coat. His collar was lifted to conceal most of his face. His black fedora was pulled down, nearly covering his shifting hazel eyes. I stood on the opposite side of the street, clutching my red briefcase. Occasionally our eyes would meet, but he would quickly look away. He appeared to be alone and didn’t even acknowledge those who greeted him.
Must be a foreigner I assumed, wondering where he came from and what language he spoke.
Was he just waiting for the bus? (As I was). Or was he people watching? My gaze went to the peddler on the corner. He was selling popcorn and cracker jacks to passers-by. I looked back towards the strange man to find he had vanished. Had I imagined the cloaked incognito stranger?
A gloved hand on my shoulder suggested otherwise. I jolted my head to see the mysterious man in the fedora. His greenish brown eyes locked on mine. A finger pressed against his lips.
“Tell no one what you saw,” he rasped.
“And what did I see?” I asked, confused.
“A hint of my language,” he responded, as if he had read my mind from a distance.
