"All this he saw, for one moment breathless and intense, vivid on the morning sky; and still, as he looked, he lived; and still, as he lived, he wondered."

And here I was, just being civil

A few nights ago, there I was at one of my favourite pubs (it’s this one, in case I’m found dead in a ditch), when an elderly guy approached me. I was sitting at a table, which is uncommon for me, because I had my portable computer with me, and there was some “urgent” work that had to be done. We know how these things work. It rarely is urgent, but we don’t a,lways have the heart (nor the means) to tell the client as much. So there I was, with my computer and my beer, at the pub, getting some shit done. When an elderly guy, as I was saying, approached me with a sketchbook and asked me if he could draw my portrait.

At my hesitation, he added he didn’t want any money so — hey! — Who am I to tell an artist he can’t be an artist? Honestly, I didn’t even feel he had to ask for my permission, and I told him as much. He was thankful, and praised me for “being civil”, because some people, in his saying, would freak out and chase him away. Which I think is a shame. But he wanted to sit at my table, and that was a little too close for comfort, so I invited him to sit a little further away. The local staff had to help me with that, which is always a signal.

I finished my work, he sketched, I raised up to leave. He came close and showed me his sketch, a Picassoesque impression of me with glasses, working. He said he wasn’t pleased with it. And then he proposed to leave me his phone number. I told him there was no need, I often was in the neighbourhood. He clarified, as if there was any need, that he wanted to give me his number because I was “very beautiful”.

“I’m also very taken,” I said.

“How long have you been in a relationship?” he asked. As if it were any of his business.

“Twenty years,” I answered, which is the truth.

“Balls,” he retorted, and walked away.

So yeah, I was being civil by letting him draw my portrait, and — as usual — I was paid back with a different kind of currency. The owner of the pub knows him, in case I’m found dead in a ditch, ’cause that’s the life a woman lives. Every day. Every evening. Every night.

Good night.

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