Thursday
Picture 2
Burntcore's Choice: Both
Title:
He faded into the background Monday through Friday, behind executives and managers and other suits, toeing the line to get the job done. He was just a courier, a person paid to do their biding. He didn’t mind it. It was just a job, it didn’t define him. No one that he worked for defined him. He defined himself. He was person, not a thing, and not easily shut into some shallow, single-sided label.
He defined himself through his music, his art, his actions, his words. For those that got close enough to find out, they would see the man behind the crisp, white button down shirt that was a part of his required dress as a courier. His job paid for his apartment and allowed him to do the things he wanted to do. So if he had to wear corporate clothes and fade into the background, he would. It didn’t change a thing about him/
It didn’t change the sleeves of tats that he had under his shirt or his pierced nipples, or the fact that he always had guitar pics in his pocket. It didn’t mean that he had his guitar with him at all times, but he found the pics soothing and would practice in his head while waiting for a run or going up or down an elevator. It didn’t change the fact that he couldn’t wait to get home to be welcomed by his little fuzzy dog, Joe.
The weekends was when he came alive. He slept in until the sunlight peeked through the slats of the miniblinds. Then he took Joe to the park where girls cooed over how cute the dog was. At night he played his guitar at a local club, flirted with the punky waitress with the pink and orange hair.
This was who he was. He wasn’t just the courier, he wasn’t just a faceless shape in a sea of suits, he was Paul. Paul the Musician, Paul the artist, Paul the owner of Joe, Paul the friend, and if he played his cards right with the waitress, Paul the lover. None of these exclusively defined him. They were all a part of who he was.
Paul.
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