Pen Pals by Matthew Dawson
It sat there, a just-ripe apple ready to be plucked from the tree. The deep red color was begging for his touch. The sunlight gleamed across the casing and turned into spectacular blossoms when it hit the silver retaining rings. Thousands of eyes were all around in the noontime rush. Someone would see it. The only eyes that mattered were turned away, chatting lightly with a half-acquaintance. He saw the gap and took a chance. He watched the crowds, looked around casually, and – without looking – crept his hand across the top of the concrete wall towards his prize. His fingers tripped over the cylinder, wrapped around and picked it up. He pulled it to his side and held the wondrous thing under his hand. The noise of the plaza continued as it had. He lifted his watch to check the time, and put it down without knowing only to mime. He stood, acquisition safely in hand, and walked calmly off. The circuitous conversation between the previous owner and their ‘friend’ was uninterrupted by the theft.