The giant comma

An original narrative about an invented sign-painting job.

On the paper plan, the comma was hardly bigger than a seed. On the wall, it would be taller than my arm. I had copied the large letters confidently, checking each against the chalk grid. The comma looked like something I could finish before lunch.

From the pavement, it was wrong. Its tail bent too sharply, and the empty space beneath it seemed to pull the next word down. I climbed back to the platform and added paint. From up there, the correction looked sensible. From below, it had become a heavy black hook.

My supervisor asked me to stop painting and walk to the opposite side of the street. At that distance, I could see how the mark sat between the words. She handed me the small plan without saying anything. The comma on the paper was not a miniature hook. It had a rounded weight and a narrow, gradual turn.

I spent the afternoon on the mark I had thought would take five minutes. By evening, it no longer called attention to itself. The sentence could be read without the reader noticing where my lunch had disappeared.

How does the writer show the unexpected difficulty of painting the comma?