It's good that you look at me, with those curious eyes. You don't ask me anything, and your expression would have remained deadpan but for those eyes. Are you asking me whether I can't sit on another seat? - the train is practically empty except for a few kids like you from the evening classes. I shouldn't be threat anyway, am I? Late sixties, same sex, weak, gasping for breath...am I a threat to you? But why do you look at me like that? Why don't you say something, or let me say something? Why do you avert your eyes to the scenes outside as I settle down opposite you?
You block all possibilities of a dialogue. You take out a book from your rucksack and pretend that you are reading. But those big eyes of yours betray you. I can see that they are stuck at some point, and they don't transfer any kind of information to your brain from that book. I know you are just thinking. Are you thinking about home? About your boyfriend? About yourself? About me?
Your fingers look as if they are meant to create art. Perhaps you are a painter. Or you like to play musical instruments. Your intimate friends are sure to love them. Those are neat hands worth holding. But why do you become so conscious and insecure in the presence of people? Are you stealing a glance on my hands, as if you have read my mind? They are wrinkled, but delicate. Slender fingers. Yes, I am an artist. I draw portraits. But you don't ask me anything, and how can I ever tell you what's in my mind?
I wish I had my digital camera with me. But even then you would have got offended if I clicked a picture that traps you cunningly in a frame that captures outside scenes from the train. You are perhaps the kind who would ask me to show those pictures and insist on deleting the one that contains you. Well, that is what I like about you. How old are you? Not more than eighteen, I guess. But you have strong resolve trapped in those sharp features. You look beautiful from every angle. Though you are the least bit made up, your sense of style is perfect. You are my girl.
You lift your eyes to confront me, as I fumble inside my bag and take out my sketchbook. Your eyes seem more relaxed now. You smile a bit to my query, "May I a draw a portrait of you? I can give the carbon copy free to you...", and say, "Of course...but you just scared me a bit." And you laugh, light-heartedly.
Image Courtesy: http://creativewriting.ie/2012/05/08/creative-writing-ink-picture-prompt-may-7th/