You're doing it wrong you know.

I turned, abandoning for now the sidewalk chalk drawing I had been working on. There stood a young man, no older than his mid twenties, clothed in a black leather jacket and, judging by his smirk, enough arrogance that I dropped my guess to his age by five years. "Doing what wrong?" I asked,

That sigil, he replied, pointing to my half finished art. You should use blue chalk for that line, or you'll never get it work properly.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about." This was more or less what I got for drawing outside where everyone could comment. Not that I minded the comments, when I was finished, but kibitzing, especially from someone old enough to be dating my sister already out of college made my teeth grind. No one that old every got what I was trying to see before, and wouldn't now.

And he smiled back at my denial like it was too cute for words. Right, you don't know what I'm talking about. You just happened to make the sigil to protect against the walking dead all on accident. And why are you talking out loud?