The Glove

A shadow flashed by and vanished. A passerby flinched and stopped in confusion: “What could that be?” He looked around and saw it. A red-haired leather glove. It lay on the gray snow, wrapped in late twilight, and the light from a streetlamp swayed in and out of its outline.

“Some klutz lost it,” the man thought as he picked it up and shook the weightless snow off it.

“Right, right… Where’s your pair?”—he brought it to his face and sniffed. “What a delicate, mysterious scent! That’s how a datura-like weed smells at sunset,” he thought, trying to imagine the owner of the lost item.

“Someone should put you somewhere visible. Maybe the owner will notice and come back,” he said out loud—and then, catching himself, became wary. “Why am I starting to talk to myself?” he thought. The lone artist left the glove on a metal fence at the edge of the snow-covered sidewalk, looked around with a hint of longing, and went home—to his empty bachelor’s den.