I'll Be Here

“Alexander Faber is freaking hot,” she gushes. 
    Five pairs of eyes look in my direction as if for confirmation.  I squeeze my eyes shut but I can practically hear the hum of their grins. 
    “He’s got a touch of that tortured artist look about him—you know, dark, fuck-me-please hair and these incredible sexy blue eyes.  He’s properly rumpled in all the right places.” 
    “I don’t even know what that means,” I interject. 
    Lance ignores me and my scowling face.  His mind lurches in a predictable direction.  “Body?” 
    “Perfection,” she responds winking at me.  “Who knows?  He could even show up here today.  Practically the entire town shows up for this every year.”
    “Let’s hope not,” I say.  “Anyway, it doesn’t matter because I’m completely over him.  Alex is not even my type anymore.”
    Laney raises her eyebrows.  She doesn’t say aloud what she’s thinking but she doesn’t have to.  I can tell by her expression.  Isn’t Alex Faber everyone’s type?
    I look away.  Onwards and upwards. 
    We’re on the outskirts of Greenacres Park, the site of the annual Spring Festival.  There’s live music, funnel cakes and a huge crowd.  Like Laney said—practically the entire town comes out for this event every year.  The boats in the marina just to the south of the park are decorated with flags and whimsical lights for the boat parade that happens just before sundown. 
    “Hey, come on.”  Laney grabs my hand, pulling me with her off the bench.  “Let’s go check out that band that I was telling you about.  They’re on stage four I think.”
    “Actually, I was thinking that I might hang back here and sketch for awhile if you guys don’t mind.”
    She drops my hand and really looks at me for a moment.  “Yeah.  You should sketch.  Just find us in like an hour or so?”
    “Sure.  That would be great.”
    Everyone waves as they pass by me.  Lance pinches my ass and I yelp. 
    “I’m going to get food before music.  You want me to get you something?”
    “Sure.  Something vegetarian.”
    “Vegetarian, huh?”
    “Yes.  That means no meat.”
    Lance cocks his head.  “Any specific requests?  Sprouts?  Alfalfa?  Flax seeds?”
    “Very funny.  I don’t eat meat but that doesn’t mean that I’m a rabbit.  Grab me like a sandwich or a salad or something simple.  I’m honestly pretty easy.”
    “You’re easy , huh?”  Lance is grinning goofily.  “I’ll let that one go but just this once.  Okay?”
    I snort.  “Whatever.”
    He chuckles and walks off, his back disappearing into a mass of bodies.
    Deciding that the wooden bench is sort of killing my butt, I settle to the grass and rest my back against a tree trunk.  I pull my knees up and prop my sketch pad against my legs. 
    Deep breaths.  Slowly in and slowly out.  My brain unfocuses even as my eyes sharpen and all I see is light and shadow.  This is a sort of meditative technique one of my drawing teachers taught me years ago. 
    The sound of my pencil scratching rhythmically across the paper is strange and familiar at the same time.  I start to breathe easier as I move onto the second sheet of paper.  This time I see a small boy with a bright red baseball cap on his head and a large soft pretzel gripped in his hand.  I start to draw him just as a seagull swoops down and snatches the rest of the pretzel away from him.  He wails and throws his head back, his chubby hands raised up in despair.  His red cheeks puff in and out with air and his watery eyes squeeze shut. 
    My hand moves quickly but steadily across the surface of the paper. 
    I’ll call this one Frustration.
    I flip to the backside of the paper and swiftly make the lines—this time bolder, capturing the elongated curve of an arm as the little boy’s mother reaches over to wipe his mouth with a napkin that she’s wetted with her tongue.  He stops crying and blinks his round eyes at her.  She is telling him something that he likes.  Maybe he’ll get cotton candy to make up for the lost pretzel.
    Consolation.
    I haven’t done this exercise in awhile but it feels good.  I used to take my sketchbook with me nearly everywhere and I’d do this.  I’d set up in a shady spot and I’d start to draw.  First, I would warm up with quick sketches—snips of something larger—just a cockeyed brow or the twist of a jaw line descending into the arched cords of neck, and once my fingers were loose and