Late in monsoon of that year. A street light exposed silhouette of a woman. It charcoaled her shadow, pinned to her shoes, on the pavement. When it drizzled. The street light started to flicker and the shadow mimicked the street light's flickering.
In her sight stood a convenient store. Mr. Whistler, an old man, owned it. He had a wrinkled face, a pair of wise blue eyes and a back bent with age. “Here's your change sir, have a good night,” greeted the old man to a customer, in a trembling voice. In the instant entered the woman from street and unveiled her face in the store. She looked haggard. Her eyes were dry, sullenness seemed to have settled in them. “We are closing in five minutes,” declared the shopkeeper. “I'll be quick,” she replied. While she busied herself, Mr. Whistler put on his coat and settled his umbrella on the counter. The woman returned with a pack of bread and peanut butter. “That'll be five dollars.” She slipped her hand hastily in her pocket. In her clumsiness the umbrella fell. He bent to pick it, when he straightened, she was gone. He searched for money, but could find only a note. It said: I'm sorry, I had no money.
Mr. Whistler, shielded from rain under a weather-beaten umbrella, walked his way home. Covering two blocks' distance, he saw the woman from his store. She was feeding her child. “Where did you find food, mom?” enquired a kid.
“A superman gave me,” replied his mom with a smile.
“Wow! Can I meet him too; can he fly?”
“Sure. Stay here, I'll get water.” Innocence is a significant element in a child's prattle. It made every wrinkle on Mr. Whistler's face smile with his lips. He took the note from his breast pocket and scribbled on it. Then bridged the distance between the boy and himself. Handed him the note. Tousled his hair and left, before the woman came. The note read: In the store. 9 am to 4 pm. You're hired - Superman.
