The Last Boy Scout

26

His deep, gentle voice blossomed at the back of his throat and the gentle tune he was humming escaped his mouth softly. He had earphones plugged in, a focused expression draped over his face, and his lean fingers brushing up against a busy canvas.

"Having fun?" She asks from her seat across from him.

He didn't hear her; he was drowning out his thoughts with music again, yet still sketching away, graphite collecting on the side of his hand. She smiled to herself, finding it funny how he didn't answer her, and looked out the airplane window.

Not too long after, a flight attendant came by, pushing along a metal cart. "Can I get you anything?" She flashed a sincere smile, her eyes twinkling.

"No, thank you, I'm good," the female passenger replies, and reaches over, slightly tapping the other passenger's knee.

"Do you want anything?" She asked him. This time, he looked up from his sketchbook, even tugging at his earphones so he could hear her properly.

"Do you have any wine?" He asked in a curious voice.

The stewardess poured the crimson liquid into a tall wine glass and handed it to him. "The limit is two glasses," she informed.

"Thank you," he took the glass from her and took a small gulp, the muscles in his neck moving accordingly. He then set the glass down carefully on the tray beside him with one hand.

"Is there anything else I can do for you two?"

"We're good right now," he replies. "Thank you,"

"You're welcome," she gives another heartwarming smile. "Enjoy your first class flight," she pushes her cart down the aisle, leaving the two passengers alone.

"Are you going to even drink that?" The young woman gestures toward the wine glass, the liquid sloshing over the rim of the cup.

He shakes his head in reply. "I'm just taking advantage of what first class has to offer," he doesn't look up, he continues to work at the thick paper, dragging his graphite pencil across with ease.

She nods her head in acknowledgment, not knowing what to do or say next. She continues to stare at the sketchbook spread out across his lap. She resists the urge to ask what he's drawing; she knows it makes him uncomfortable, and makes him feel somewhat ashamed. Instead, she keeps her questions to herself and observes how his hand maneuvers delicately across the page, his palm tilted upwards to avoid smudging the pencil lead.

She presses her forehead against the glass of the window pane, staring at the cloudy nothingness outside.

"Face me," he instructs her, and she catches on to what he might be drawing.

"Like this?" She turned her head back, eyeing him to see if he was content.

"A little to the right..." he flicks his hand in the direction he wants her to face. "... yes; that's good, stay there,"

She stayed still for a couple minutes, patiently waiting for him to finish. "That's good, thanks," he continues to work across the canvas, now using smaller strokes.

She couldn't hold in her curiosity anymore. "Are you drawing... me?"

He doesn't look up, his brows are knit together, and his lips are pursed tightly.