A glimpse by Z. Fry
He seemed to have appeared from out of nowhere, when I looked up from the racing form. An old man slowly walked down the shed row of horses, petting each horse on the neck and stroking their noses. His lips moved in silent conversation as he went to each of the stall doors.
He was dressed from head to toe in clothing once fashionable, but now faded, worn and outdated. A wilted brimmed hat was cocked to the side of his head, his old dress shirt two sizes too big with the cuffs of his trousers that dragged in the dirt.
For some reason though, it was his shoes that caught my attention. They were a deep shade of brown with a hint of chestnut, perfectly polished and buffed. A lovely hand tooled pattern on the tips of each shoe, scrolled in a delicate half shaped heart. They were wing-tipped shoes.
He stopped in front of a shy 3 year old’s stall and gazed at the youngster who stood back in the shadows. As the minutes passed, the old man began to quietly hum a tune and played with the change in his trouser pockets. It was enough to catch the youngster’s curiosity, as the colt carefully hung his head over the stall gate and stretch it’s nose towards the old man’s open hand.