Dear Diary:
The man on the subway across from me asked, “Would you mind if I drew your picture?”
He was broodingly
handsome with a sketchbook poised in his lap. He was not, however,
actually talking to me, but to the young woman sitting to my right. She
was about my age, with long, wavy blond hair, perfect skin, and a short
skirt that exposed slim and impossibly long legs. She sat there with
her index finger carelessly sliding across the glossy screen of her iPad
looking very “well, yes I’m sure this looks fun, but if you must know
I’m actually quite bored.”
Like most New Yorkers,
she seemed a bit put out that someone she didn’t know was actually
addressing her in public. She waved her hand dismissively at him, a
silent gesture telling him he was free to do what he pleased. I watched
as people on either side of the artist looked on, all nodding their
heads as if to say, yes just make that cheekbone a little higher. Yes,
that’s it! I think you’ve got it!
When it was done, he tore off the sheet of paper in a proud flourish and gave it to her. She accepted it begrudgingly.
“What do you think?”
she asked me as though we were now the best of friends. “It’s
beautiful,” I said. And it was. She considered the picture for a moment
before stuffing it into her bag, and going back to her iPad.
I looked up at the
deflated artist, and shrugged. Sure I may not have had that hair or
those legs, but he nodded back with silent acceptance of the fact that
even without all those things, he knew, at least I would have tipped
him.
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