Wallet

The deep brown leather of the wallet sat on the light gray—almost white in the burning sunlight—sidewalk. Cathy eyed it slowly, as if she were a cat circling a toy mouse. She knew she'd waited too long. Anyone watching would call her a thief, and maybe they'd be right. But the things people leave on the ground—the "shit" that they drop: necklaces, empty pieces of paper… wallets—are her only connection to these people— a connection more real than the beautiful facades everyone wears. Every day is another masquerade ball, and when everyday is a masquerade ball we almost forget we're wearing masks.
She ran her soft white fingers over the wallet, almost caressing it before she finally snatched it and held it in her bosom—close—as if she were holding a child. Suddenly self-conscious Cathy quickly moves across the white concrete to a bench under the soft shade of a quiet, unassuming tree. The bench felt lonely, and forgotten. As soon as she opens the wallet a picture of a child slips out and falls on the too-green grass. She ignores the wallet and holds the picture. A small boy with wide blue eyes and a large tooth-less smile, on the back of it was written '78. Cathy wondered if the owner— probably an older guy with kids of his own—showed this picture to others, but it didn't seem right. With the picture between her fingers—its frayed edges and almost yellowing appearance—Cathy almost immediately realized that whoever owned this wallet held this picture to remind himself who he really was—some happy kid. And honestly, he probably doesn't even know the kid anymore life—as they'd call it—pushed him from this naivety. She knew that no matter how much she looked it would probably be impossible to connect this picture with a person. Even then, Cathy didn't want to, she wanted to hold on to him like this, a stranger with a cute tooth-less smile.