The paint glares.

He takes off his utilitarian glasses, briefly, and swipes the fabric of his shirt over the lenses in smooth, even circles. Carefully, he resettles them, allowing the frames to latch onto flesh and find a comfortable position. This is a sight worth seeing, and worth seeing well.

The graffiti arcs across the wall in grand sweeps: the green bulge of a letter, the jagged magenta of an outline, the crackling blue of a fading slur. Also, maroon—a dark color, pale in contrast to the clamoring cacophony of the other hues. The maroon hisses as it erupts from the can, etching its way across the concrete wall.

Hunched over on the sidewalk is the artist, his unkempt hair forming a thorny crown of slick brown spines. The skin of his brow tightens in a clenched V as he finishes off the final letter of what Joe can only assume is his name. The scrawled script might as well be a foreign language; it’s just as elegant as Japanese hirigana, in its own way, and just as indecipherable to our watcher.

“You again,” the artist says aloud as he sets the maroon aside, after Joe’s presence transforms the silence into something tense. He reaches into the bag next to him for another can, finding the color he needs without bothering to look—or maybe he just doesn’t care. Joe can’t tell.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sorry. I don’t mean to interrupt.” Almost without thinking, he leans farther into the shadows, even if it’s not necessary—the kid isn’t looking at him.

“You always apologize, whenever I ask anything.” This time, an orange-yellow shade streaks from the can, bold and bright, filling in the negative space between alien pictures. “And you’re here, again. What gives?”

“I just like to watch.” Joe sinks against the wall and does just that, his newly cleaned glasses glinting in the fading light. This is his favorite time, when the sun is balanced precariously on the horizon, even if he won’t say as much to anyone else.  It lends itself well to the unfamiliar scene, sending the wet paint aglow and highlighting the rugged terrain of the artist’s face.

“For all I know you’re going to turn me in,” the kid grumbles. He sweeps a grubby hand across his forehead and continues working. “So. This is the third day you’ve run into me.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve seen you before, around. Looking at my work, sometimes.”

He shrugs. The kid rolls his eyes. “You got a name?”

“Joe.”

“Joe. That’s pretty average.”

“Yeah.”

He snorts and turns back to the wall. “You got a job?”

“I’m…a cubicle drone.” The words spill from his tongue reluctantly. It’s the best descriptor he has.

“Ah!” The painter laughs, and his face splits into a grin like an opening watermelon, dropping the façade of apathy for just a moment as sincere amusement breaks through. “Nice description, man. I figured as much.” Apparently, he’s been deemed to be safe, not a threat. Just some eccentric wanderer. There’s a lot of those, in the city. Joe doesn’t usually think of himself as one.

“Really?”

“Average Joe, average life. It seems fitting.”

Joe shrugs the sort-of insult away. It’s not important. “You have a name, yourself?”

“Not an important one. I ain’t that stupid.” The kid laughs. “I got to watch my own back, you know?”

He doesn’t know, but he nods anyway and resettles his glasses. It doesn’t matter—the kid is rocking back on his heels, admiring his own handiwork, and he doesn’t see Joe’s gesture.

The sun is setting. In the morning, he will pack his briefcase and squeeze into an elevator and go back to working, working, working, a premature adult—and then he will go home again and repeat the process the next day. His work life is hemmed in on three sides by white walls, and by a white hallway behind. Here, though, is another story.

Here, he’s just a passerby who has been snared by the beauty of witnessing art unfurl before him, and this kid is just a benignly tolerant provider of sustenance. Joe isn’t a data-entry robot, not here.  This is separate.

Slowly, the scene before him evolves from a scribble of words into a detailed scene. A city skyline erupts from the lettertops, bold and black against the gray concrete. The skyscrapers are given windows, tiny pinpricks of white paint. Overhead, a monster swoops over the newly born city, its wings ribbed with red and black. Joe watches the paint bloom on the urban canvas, entranced. The kid notices.

“You like it?”

“I’ve…never gotten a chance to see it before.”

“What, graffiti?” Cheerful disbelief laces his words. “You’re joking.”

“Not…graffiti, so much as…” Joe trails off and shakes his head. “Never mind. I…like it. I do.”

The artist shakes his head and keeps going. Joe falls silent. He’s never been good with words.

The sun falls over the horizon, and the kid begins to pack up. The cans are tossed haphazardly into the bag, rattling as they collide; it’s hard to imagine that inside the nondescript exterior lies the possibility of so much. Or perhaps the possibility lies not in the paint, but in the hands that wield it with such languid, anarchic talent. Joe doesn’t make the distinction.

“Thank you,” he says aloud. The kid quirks an eyebrow at him, a comic gesture that makes Joe’s mouth twitch in a hesitant grin.

“What for?” the kid-artist asks. Joe just shrugs, and the kid laughs. “You’re not very verbose.”

Verbose. Where did he pick up a word like that?

The next morning, Joe looks around his cubicle walls, startled by the blankness. He ignores it and goes back to typing, but as he does, he wishes, just a little.

In an alley somewhere, there’s a kid armed with nothing more than a spray can, and the chaotic pulse of color whirls out into the air.