If you were here with us, you would smile at his soft voice, heart-shaped face, feathered blond hair just a bit long in a cool way, too-big little red sweatshirt sleeves crumpled at his wrists, with an ease I am lacking just now. Just now needing to not do anything I “gotta get done by…” craving quiet like a running man must have water.
In a leather sofa chair, tangerine Izze beside, he draws fat purple lines, sharp teeth, two heads connected by a cryptic tether, in his yellow composition notebook. Between artistic ideas he doesn’t (really) want to bother with, every bit of wondering shoots out of his mouth like a bright gold thought balloon aimed for my ears. He hopes I will answer and not (again) raise a single finger to my mouth, a silent “Hush child.”
I will not tell him I too wish he had looked harder for his netbook before we left for the cafe, but I do.