Portraying

© aNadventures

You observe my writing. You make a joke about your cup of coffee. You tell me how my handwriting reminds you of your father’s – all neat and small. You tell me about how your mother fled her home town with your sister and yourself, when you were just a toddler. You ask me what kind of people I like to surround myself with. You’re the first person to ever ask me this precise question. You know how to catch my interest. You tell me about books and movies and people and places. You buy me coffee. You talk but you also know when to stop. You listen and make me feel heard. You make me feel special. You let me know the days and times you usually come here. You say you’d like to meet again. 

 

Just when we’re about to leave, a man from the table next to ours hands me a piece of paper. It contains my portrait. I’d noticed him smiling and looking but I had no clue he’d been drawing me. I feel flattered. You tell me you can’t leave me alone with all these men. You say it in a fun way, not as a reproach or anything like that. The men at the next table ask if you’re my father. More like a grandpa, you say. They say they see the resemblance. We look at each other. We smile. 

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