Sketch

The surroundings were unfamiliar but somehow echoed your personality. The furniture was mission style, the living room kept neat, piles of books and magazines littered the occasional coffee table. It was dark out, getting later.

Of course being myself...I fell asleep. You left me alone, that irreparable rift between us manifesting in extra space. I didn't want it, but you did. So you escaped, went somewhere, to the gym or to get food or something. And here I was, in your house, closer to you than ever, and yet never further away.

I do one of two things when left alone in a strange place - draw or nap, and I chose both. First I drew, and then I yawned, and then yawned some more until I found myself putting on my Bose headphones. I think I finally drifted off to "Silhouette" by Active Child.

During the course of my nap I twisted and turned on the couch, my sketchbook careening to the floor. My headphones slipped off a little but I didn't notice. I don't know if it was one hour or two, but I kept napping until you returned and woke me up.

My blurry eyes blinked and searched to find you standing next to me, something white and square in your hands. I sucked in a deep breath and tried to wake fully. I went to take off my headphones and instead managed to unplug them so that "Temptation" by Bondax filled the silence. How fitting.

There was enough tension between us that it could be sliced up and served for dinner. I hesitated to speak until I realized that it was my sketchbook you held in your hands. You ran a thumb along the edge, seeming to analyze whatever image you had chanced to.

Naturally the page you viewed was the portrait I made of you.

Your features were the stuff of artist's dreams. Not because of youth, beauty or symmetry. No, your features were a treasure because of the wisdom behind your eyes, because of the slight lines of laughter that framed your mouth and the general imperfections that make a person unique.

'It was beautiful because it was you,' I thought to myself. Which was quickly followed by an inward scolding and memories flooding back of what a dick you were/are. Still, I drew the picture from memory and applauded myself for the effort, for it looked very similar to you.

"Sorry to wake you," you nearly whispered, turning half towards me.

"No worries."

Silence.

"I see you've found my sketchbook."

"I did."

"What do you think? Perhaps now that I've made it I should analyze it. Maybe write a paper..."

You huffed a soundless laugh.

"I personally think it's A+ quality."

"Because of the subject?" you jested.

"No, not at all. Because of the skill demonstrated of course."

"It is a very good drawing," you conceded. "Of course it is," I replied.

"Cocky much?"

"No...not cocky. I just have an odd relationships with portraits. The better I know the subject/person, the worse my drawing is. For the life of me I can't draw those who I'm close to. But with strangers...it's easy."

The smirk fell from your face.

"It was a given that I'd draw you well," I sat up, reached out and took the pad, "because I don't really know you."

Your facial features twisted into an arrangement of emotions I couldn't discern.

"You know, I wrote a poem once about choking on unspoken words, I had no idea that I was writing it about you." I smiled.

You looked at me and then the notebook. "Mind if I look at the rest?"

The request caught me off guard. I looked at my mind in the form of paper and decided... what the hell. Slowly I handed it over.

"Be careful," I warned. "If you start acting like a friend, I might be inclined to mistake you for one." I reclined once more on the couch. "Then again, I don't make the same mistakes twice."

Whatever words you had prepared turned to air and escaped your being in a breath. I half expected an apology but knew that such a fat thing like that could never get through the doorway of your ego. Oh well.

I arranged myself comfortably on the couch and pulled up the blanket. It was late. I was tired.

"Do I get to keep the portrait?" you asked.

I laughed so hard that I shook your dog who rested at my feet. "Has anyone ever told you that it's unhealthy to be so in love with yourself?"

"I think it's healthy."

"If I ever got you a present it would be a mirror."

You laughed, sitting down at the edge of the coffee table with my sketchbook. "And you know what? I'd love it."

I shook my head and turned over, plugging my headphones back in.

"Going to bed?"

"Yes," I said into a pillow. "One can only take so much narcissism, jazz music and mission style furniture. Goodnight loser."