The first time I took notice of him was when he asked me if he could draw my eyes. He was my co-passenger. For the next week, he found a seat opposite me in the bus that weaved through the streets between my workplace and home and sketched away, while I read my book. He was an artist who was taking classes in a nearby college, and I was just another subject. I loved the way his hands worked magic on the paper. When he was done, the eyes on his paper looked like mine – but spoke a different language and told different stories. My co-passenger was an artist, alright.
Yesterday, as my train pulled into London Victoria, I caught a reflection of my tired eyes in the window and was reminded of him.
I guess, the stories my eyes told, on his paper all those years ago, were mine after all.