Here, give me your hand. The one that's still got all its fingers.
rifles through milk crate-places object in man's unmangled hand-man looks at it-brow wrinkles-recognition eventually switches the lamp on behind his eyes
It's a clover.
For luck, I say. By the way…how's that book of yours coming along?
Workin' on it, the man replies as he walks off, head bent while he examines the small, smooth, green glass – tchotchke – paperweight suitable for a lone sticky note.
A Saint Paddy's Sham. Rock On! [unspoken bit hovers above in a billowy pink thought bubble]
Yeah, yeah. Right. I watch his body retreat, rise, and float all cumulus like toward the next vendor's stall.
NOT EVERY INTERACTION RESULTS IN A SALE BUT THIS ONE LOOKS LIKE HE MIGHT COME BACK
*add up in the end
Semi-Daily Scribbles 
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