“Left at the purple streetlight,” thought Guerin to himself.
The small gray man couldn’t hurry. He felt completely in the right. If anyone were to be angry, it wouldn’t be his fault.
Snow clung to hem of his overcoat. His heavy boots ploughed dirty troughs as he shuffled and puffed. Late winter sun began a thaw and the night left the snow crusty and icy. Guerin did not want to risk a slip and fall.
He shuffled a little faster as he approached the next pole only a few meters away.
Scraping into the pool of light showering from the fixture above him, Guerin looked up and narrowed his rheumy eyes.
Vermillion. God damned vermillion.
Guerin huffed with frustration. You never could tell the true color of a streetlight unless you stood directly under it. Cursed damned Faeries. All the damned tricks and subtleties. Streetlights should be streetlights and not some cocked up collection of secret signposts for the various factions.
He could only trust his instructions and move on to the next light pole. He batted at the brim of his floppy hat with a gray mitten.
Left at the purple streetlight.
Guerin couldn’t remember how long he’d been shuffling and crunching through the snow on this sidewalk.
The last thing he could remember, distinctly and without doubt, was pissing many lights before. The pressure had grown unbearable. Guerin had fumbled at his pants with his gray mittens for an impossible time. Finally he pulled the mittens off with his teeth. There had been no traffic and he hadn’t dared leave the sidewalk. So he stood at the edge of the light and arched his yellow stream into the darkness. The muffled splattering barely reached his ears.
He should’ve written his name: “Guerin was here.”
He smiled a little crooked smile as he thought about it. There’d probably be some power in that, in the craft and the defiance no matter how pitiful.
Goddamned Faeries.
Truth was he needed to piss again and he’d almost reached the next light.
As he slowly neared the bright circle under the lamp, his bladder quivered with anticipation. Guerin also thrilled a little at the thought of his petty plans.
He stood in the reflected glow off the snow. He watched his breath float and curl off into the darkness and made his decision.
Biting his mittens off with practiced thoroughness, he lowered his zipper expertly, reached in pulled out his member, and began to write.
He didn’t hold quite as much as last time and ran out after “Guerin was he”.
With a final spasm, he dripped a concluding period to salvage his work.
“Guerin was he.”
He sighed and stowed his manhood. Guerin took two crackling steps into the circle of light and stopped. The words in the snow had changed.
“Yes he was, wasn’t he?”
Guerin felt a tingling tightness spread down the back of his neck.
As he watched, the yellow script crawled through the snow into a new configuration.
“Look up.”
Guerin slowly raised his pinched face to the bulb shining over him.
Purple.
Goddamned Faeries.
He looked down at the letters. Now they read “Guerin was here.”
He couldn’t know if he pleased them or angered them, but he knew his instructions.
Guerin turned to his left and stepped off the sidewalk. The blackness closed over him and his crunching steps faded away to nothing.
Pakeha