Kathryn Dumke

A Little Black Book

I’d been watching him all day. At first, with barely veiled contempt, then with a growing disbelief ending in wide-eyed shock. He was a nondescript man, with unmemorable stature and ambiguous features. His clothes were dirty, his shoes were torn and his large duffel bag was ripping at the seams. Even the notebook he took out and scribbled one line in after taking his seat on the park bench was unnoticeable at first glance; black, small, nondescript.