The deafening roar of the engines silences me. I’m walking down the pavement in my usual way. Eyes down and lips shut, too careful not to unleash my thoughts inside my pockets. I ignore countless of silhouettes that pass me by. But my body comes into an abrupt halt when I see a familiar figure.
There he was, the tax collector.
His lips are as thin as the last ray of the sun when it sets. He has a weird posture, but it isn’t out of normal. His arms are crossed. I tap his shoulder with my left hand. I look up. My thoughts scatter around me and I’m thinking that he would look the other side.
But
our
eyes
meet.
And so the collection of taxes began.
Black Apology 