She walks in, her eyes like soft pencil lines.
She smiles when she looks at the waitress,
ordering a coffee.
I sip mine slow, looking out the diner window.
“You always draw this late?” she asks.
Only when I can’t sleep. Or when I’m hungry.
Just depends on which one happens first.
She rolls her eyes.
Falling feels like a good pen that suddenly runs out of ink.
Normally, when I draw, I’m in my own little world.
No conversation. Just my graphite and my sketchpad.
Of all the beautiful colors that life can arrange,
I admit—I’m intrigued by this woman.
I completely put my pencil down and let my coffee get cold.
But that’s how fast inspiration strikes.
This grayscale drawing, splashed with the rainbow that is her.
Although I’m listening, I keep my head down,
pretending I’m still drawing the picture I was working on
when she first walked in.
She sits two booths away, hesitating before asking,
“Can you draw me?”
I look up immediately.
“You’d have to come closer.”
I catch the reflection of the city in her eyes—
the blinking sign outside, the brake lights from the cars.
I flip the page and start tracing lines on my sketchpad.
She tilts her head, watching my progress.
I ask the waitress for a refill.
“Do you ever draw people you don’t know?”
I look at her, smile, and say, “No.”
At some point, we see everyone before we really meet them.
In a way, it wasn’t a lie.
I have seen her somewhere before.
Or at least, I’ve thought of meeting someone
who looks the way she looks.
But then again, art is subjective.
She watches me over the rim of her mug as she sips her coffee.
She leans forward.
“What do you see when you look at me?”
The most beautiful things happen at unexpected moments.
Normally, when someone asks a question like that,
if you answer too fast, it’s a lie.
If you take too long, it’s a lie.
Before I knew it, I told her:
“Someone that talks to strangers when she’s bored.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Let me see.”
I show her the sketch,
point at it, and imitate her voice.
“Can you draw me?”
It’s not exactly polished.
She studies the rough graphite,
scratched to life between the pores of the page.
She rests her elbows on the table.
Before she answers, I speak first.
“I think about what things can be, versus what’s presented to us.
If we tell each other something deep about ourselves—
a strong 7.5 out of 10—it’s going to be either forgettable
or full of ****. Either way, we’re both hoping
not to regret opening up
to someone who’s just going to nod and smile.”
She smirks.
“If I told you I love the progress on the picture so far, what then?”
I shrug.
“I’d still think you’re full of ****.
But you’re kind of cute.”
Falling feels like a good pen that suddenly runs out of ink.
To be honest, I don’t think it’s the uncertainty of where I’d land.
I haven’t exactly lived my life by the advice I give other people.
I never really think about the end of things.
Whatever I do, I just go with it and expect the best.
I think about it, of course.
But eventually, the ink runs out.
That’s just life.
Although I’m drawing her physically,
in my mind, I’ve drawn the curve of her neck twice over.
The thought of drawing someone else
doesn’t even come to mind
