The Yellow Line
Leroy stood on the curb, kicking loose gravel around aimlessly. He looked at the lines and grooves in the concrete. He stared harder at them, hoping to see some sort of message hidden within. He looked up at the road. He looked at his father’s wristwatch, hung loosely around his wrist. The bus was late, he thought, as he made his way to the edge of the kerb and sat down. He looked at his hands: the lines on them looked very much like the ones set in concrete. Except those lines were set in white cement and his were set in his chocolate-coloured, breathing self. High school was usually the...