He, Saltfingers

He ran his oily fingers along the street window, leaving four parallel streaks framing the suit-adorned passersby in geometric patterns. Moving to the lobby furniture, he felt his thumb squeak rubbery as he dragged it along a black leather chair, his splintered fingernail leaving fibrous, permanent scratch marks in its wake. Bare feet trod on polished slate; as wingtips and pumps went click-clack, his steps sounded in wet and intermittent clops, leaving a red and slimy trail wherever He went. What was yet another day of “work” for him was a disgusting imposition upon office employees everywhere. Walking in dirty circles around marble lobbies was to him a sort of stroll in paradise, and as he studied the words of the dapper bourgeois as they complained to someone on their cell phones about his unseemly presence, he could only imagine himself in their polished shoes.