His hand is quickly covering the white page in little lines we call writing. Desperately trying to capture a fleeting thought, or maybe a story. The need to express that thought or story so strong that nothing distracts him, not the loud sounds of Downtown, nor the many people walking by quickly in front of us.
No, those things weren’t important. All that mattered was the marks, the words that conveyed his meaning, flowing from his pen to the page. His eyes never left the paper, the pen never left the page.
His mousy brown hair hid his face from view of all but me, sitting close next to him. We’d been sitting on this brick wall, in front of some building in the middle of downtown for close to ten minutes now. I didn’t mind the pause, I just lamented the fact I’d left my sketchbook at home.
I wondered what the passersby must think of some 5’10” guy in ripped jeans, an old band tee, and long hair, sitting on a brick wall downtown writing in a battered notebook. Judging from the odd looks he was getting, I probably didn’t want to know.
His pen stops, and he glances up, as if realizing for the first time where he was. He looks at me with a smile as he closes his notebook. He hops down from the wall, and then helps me down His arm settles around my waist as we walk away.