Harold Cold Stone (in progress)

Harold Coldstone sitting in an old train station bench He looks down at the rusted metal supporting him, the off yellow paint peeling away from it’s original décor. He rubs the metal pushing the paint away, lightly staining his thumb tip red with rust. Harold is an employee at the Coldstone shrimp and fish market. He packs, checks, cleans, cooks, strips, and guts various types of aquatic animals for his father and founder. His profession has taught him a lot about working with his hands. He wipes his thumb on his wind breaker and notices white chalk still on his black work shoes. He takes classes at a community college a few miles north east of the bench he sits in now. He walks to both his classes and work usually wearing the same set of fish stink black shoes. They make a sort of squeak with every step, the sound of rubber and skin working against each other. Harold always considered his walks to and from school and work to be the most productive use of his time but he always thought education and a steady income to be worthwhile, until recently. Only hours ago Harold was performing a presentation on plate tectonic activity within the last five years in the Atlantic ocean, to an assembly of peers who all had an expression of preoccupation, but it didn’t bother Harold. The only point during the geographic explanation that spiked the interest of Marie Holland is when Harold leaned on the chalk shelf with a little too much confidence. Harold crashed onto the tile in a heap of broken chalk and white powder. The class seemed to have a reserved sense of concern but Harold got up quickly only to make a half hearted joke related to plate tectonics and his balance. Marie Chuckled and Harold took notice of her for the first time. He produced the remainder of the presentation without interruption, only now with a timid awareness of a new possible person of interest. Harold looked up at the sky from the station bench and felt the cool November air push through the station. The smell of rain reminded him of Allen Burner and his brother Dave Burner and The first day of Harold’s junior year at Harlamen high. He entered his 8:30 statistics class with his clothes soaked and his black shoes filled with rain water.