The security guard stepped out of the bakery, his wrinkled navy blue uniform baggy around his tightly cinched belt. He wore comfortable shoes with thick white socks. He walks a lot during the day, so comfort remains high on his priorities. He had gone into the bakery to get a cafecito, a small coffee in a tiny white styrofoam cup. Soon he would return to patrolling the tiny strip mall.
On his way through the swinging glass door, he jostled the full little cup and spilled hot coffee on his fingers. Our man held on though, held on for dear life. I could see the pain in his face, but he wasn't going to give up that coffee.
Damn - now he had hot sticky coffee all over his hand. No napkin - he checked his pants - clean. He sighed mild relief, the uniform would go for one more day without washing. He exchanged the cup to his left hand and shook off the drops, and turned looking for something upon which to wipe his little fingers. He reached out to a bright yellow metal pole, a parking barrier, its top peeling paint and, after a quick glace around to see if anyone was looking, wiped his hand upon its top, down the side, and gave it a slap.
He brought the cup to his lips and gingerly took a sip.