July 06, 2009

Paaschendale

Lars sat quietly, thinking of things to write and put into his sketchbook. The black moleskine sat in front of him, its pages open and bending in the wind from the doorway of the cafe. He sat with a glassy look in his eyes and tapped his pen slowly on the front of his teeth. He drew in a slow breath, allowing for it to linger for a little while inside his mouth, then letting it pass through a small hole between his lips. His eyes drew shut for a moment and he listened. All around him, people where jostling in and out of this cafe. Wannabe divas entered and exited in their large pink coats with matching, quilted leather handbags. Men in business suits had cell phones and large electronic bricks pressed against the side of their heads. Lars could hear them speaking, yelling at some poor lackey in an office basement without any windows. He tried to imagine what spineless little goons were being subjected to this harsh verbal treatment.

For another half hour or so, he listened, keyd into these little private conversations trying to shape a life in his head, then draw the person being talked to in his sketchbook. Faces, frowns, smiles and bodies all appeared in rapid succession of another. They danced across the thick pages, all telling a story before him. Lars sat up. Stared out the window and felt accomplished.

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