after the end [stucky]

three

On the train I take everyday, there was a little girl who watched me throughout the whole journey. She sat with her father—blonde hair, blue eyes—clutching his hand with both of her little paws. I couldn't help but feel a twang in my chest—jealousy? Or happiness for them? Both?

But I remember now, as I drink my coffee in Café Eden, the girl's short, brown hair and dark, almost black, eyes. Dark, like freshly tilled earth. Dark, like the heavy weight of the universe's expanse.

Dark brown eyes like Peggy. But I couldn't think about her then, especially since we won the fight. I couldn't think about wanting more because I have to be grateful for what I have now.

Even though we still lost people.

The girl probably took after her mother, or was something else entirely. Her shy smile, scruffed up leggings (printed with stars) and dirty sneakers (plain but had red shoelaces) reminded me of another time, another place.

Her father stared at the floor where I stood gripping the metal handle, his expression blank. The artist inside of me continued its sweet whisperings, reciting each of his facial features. His face matched his daughter's shoes - rugged, but pleasing to the eye. Dominant features like a prominent bone structure, level brows, a strong nose. A trustworthy face, but still cautious although vacant.

Lines, faint but perceptible, etched his face like contours, marks of a story of a full life. Not the signs of old age but rather creases from many frowns and smiles. Frowns from deep concern of loved ones; smiles given away like free vouchers to the circus. As his dull eyes shifted to his daughter, his face became sombre, perhaps a bit sad. The lines softened as if he remembered something—a happy memory, or the feeling of fondness?

I wondered where they were travelling to on the subway. If they were visiting someone close to them just like me.

The girl's face begins to form from a few sketch lines in my notepad. My hand trembles, eager to note every detail that flows into my mind. First, the roundness of her eyes with a twinkle as she gazed at me in an innocent, childish curiosity. Then, the small dimples at her corner of her curved, little mouth as I winked at her. After that, the softness of her tiny hands which gripped her father's.

Sliding my hand across the page, I hover my pencil to start sketching the man. But I pause, trying to remember how he looked in that exact moment.

For me, drawing is a careful examination of the world around you. Like photography, it captures specific scenes at a specific time. But unlike photography, drawing enables you to alter the scene to how you see it.

I look around the café. Sometimes when I lose my concentration or my creative flow just stops altogether, taking a step back helps me momentarily take a break. It centres me, like gravity, allowing my mind to see again.

The blurred chat of casual conversations envelops me in a comfortable warmth. The pattering of New York rain intertwines with the melody of people, a soothing song that calms me. Friends, families and singular bystanders all fill the café where various beverages and plates are enjoyed. My senses are kissed with the rich scent of coffee and baked goods, inviting me to go to the till and satisfy my tastes. There's a baby crying, friends giggling, a loner indulged in their book. Quietly but not so quiet that it's ignored, a relaxed piece of jazz is like the cherry on top of this peaceful scenery.

This picture floats like a watercolour in my mind. I wait for it to fade but it remains, nudging me to draw it next. But as I press my pencil down onto the wrinkled paper, a laugh snags my attention.

It comes from the table a few meters in front of me, next to the misty window. A couple. On a coffee date.

It's a guy and girl, the former tan as gold, and the latter with deep brown skin. As the girl whispers something, raising herself slightly from her seat, the guy laughs again. It's a rich sound, resonating through the café, blending with the intricate tune of this scene.