Ars Circumstans Nos (289 words)

Miguel stops sweeping, leans on his broom and watches as the leaves dance in the wind. In his mind he hears the soothing tones of Tchaikovsky's Dance of the Swans and smiles as his own private ballet unfolds before him. Shortly before the end of act two he is rudely interrupted by a shove in the back off his supervisor; Connor Reeves a man fifteen years his junior and only in a supervisory role due to the length of time he has been employed with Borehamshire council.

"Jesus wept Micky we haven't got all day; we've got to plant the Daff bulbs in the high street before we clock off. Now stop day dreaming and sort your shit out, you dumb Wop."

Miguel sighs as the music slowly fades away, looks at Connor and feels the contempt bubble up within him. "My name is Miguel not Micky or Mickey or pal or buddy and I'm not a wop, I am of Mexican descent so you may want to go for Spic as your chosen racial slur in future."

"I'm sick of your attitude Sanchez, don't think I won't report you." Retorts Reeves "Now get this lot cleared up, we don't have siestas over here Pedro."

Connor storms off grumbling about immigrants and stolen jobs leaving Miguel with the cast of his dead leaf ballet, he tries to pick up where he left off but the moment has gone. Letting out another sigh he resumes sweeping. He marvels for a second as he creates and then destroys a Rothko piece with the detritus and the smile creeps back over his face.

"Ars circumstans nos" he mumbles to himself as he makes his way back towards the van and his tormentor.

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