This is part of a larger collection of short pieces I wrote for a class project about a month ago. It's still a work in progress (in fact I just re-edited this today because I absolutely hated some of the lines after revisiting it from the last time I read it.)
We’re sitting on a
wooden bench in the corner of the bustling Hall of Justice. Men in black suits
like resolute legal soldiers march urgently past us with their leather
briefcases clutched close to their sides. Guards in navy blue uniforms with
shining gold badges stand stiff like statues outside of courtroom doors. The
elevator dings and takes on a group of diverse passengers – young men in button
up dress shirts, women in pressed skirt suits, men in baggy jeans and
large hoodies. A guy sits across from us clutching his hat; he stares at the ground,
averting his eyes from the activity surrounding him. A woman walks past us
towards the exit, a smile across her cheeks, eyes glowing with joy, with
victory – she drags a child hand-in-hand behind her towards the exit.
Pat pulls a pen out of his pocket and opens to a blank page in his little black sketch book, “look at me,” he says. My cheeks flush pink and I smile bashfully. His pen begins to work quickly; he traces the curvature of my jaw. The paper emits a musical whoosh, a swish as he sketches the streamlines of my hair. “I wish he would get here already,” he states, glancing up at my face, he pauses for a moment to examine his subject, and returns to the drawing.
“Yeah, I um… It’s already like one thirty; doesn’t it usually end by two?” I ask, awkwardly trying to hold the expression on my face.
His pen scratches across the paper effortlessly, elegantly like a musician improvising a song. His glance moves from me to the paper and he carves the almond shape of my eyes. “Yeah, he’ll probably be here soon, it’s fine,” he replies. His pen dances over the paper, crafting smooth and perfect lines around the waves of my lips. Drawing is his native language, the ink flows fluently through his pen, and he translates the images in his mind to the paper.
He sketches a few final lines and closes the book. I snatch it from his grasp and turn to the page of the new drawing. Every line has life - the sketch breathes with my likeness and beats with the pulse of his hands. I gaze at him and smile, my chest fills with warmth, and I loop my arm through his arm. We sit in silence and continue to wait.
A voice carries across the bustling room and a man wearing a bright purple tie shuffles towards us, “hey, Pat, look I checked and tried to get somebody down here, but they are having a graduation ceremony for the mental health court today so they aren’t doing screens. I recorded that you were here, you’re fine to go.”
“Okay, thanks,” Pat replies, shaking the man’s hand while standing to leave. “Well that was a waste of time,” he directs to me.
“It’s okay,” I smile.
Pat pulls a pen out of his pocket and opens to a blank page in his little black sketch book, “look at me,” he says. My cheeks flush pink and I smile bashfully. His pen begins to work quickly; he traces the curvature of my jaw. The paper emits a musical whoosh, a swish as he sketches the streamlines of my hair. “I wish he would get here already,” he states, glancing up at my face, he pauses for a moment to examine his subject, and returns to the drawing.
“Yeah, I um… It’s already like one thirty; doesn’t it usually end by two?” I ask, awkwardly trying to hold the expression on my face.
His pen scratches across the paper effortlessly, elegantly like a musician improvising a song. His glance moves from me to the paper and he carves the almond shape of my eyes. “Yeah, he’ll probably be here soon, it’s fine,” he replies. His pen dances over the paper, crafting smooth and perfect lines around the waves of my lips. Drawing is his native language, the ink flows fluently through his pen, and he translates the images in his mind to the paper.
He sketches a few final lines and closes the book. I snatch it from his grasp and turn to the page of the new drawing. Every line has life - the sketch breathes with my likeness and beats with the pulse of his hands. I gaze at him and smile, my chest fills with warmth, and I loop my arm through his arm. We sit in silence and continue to wait.
A voice carries across the bustling room and a man wearing a bright purple tie shuffles towards us, “hey, Pat, look I checked and tried to get somebody down here, but they are having a graduation ceremony for the mental health court today so they aren’t doing screens. I recorded that you were here, you’re fine to go.”
“Okay, thanks,” Pat replies, shaking the man’s hand while standing to leave. “Well that was a waste of time,” he directs to me.
“It’s okay,” I smile.
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