On my way home from work, I met a boy. Well, technically I didn’t meet him. I saw him.
He boarded the train, went to a corner and immediately squatted down. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a black, hardcover notebook and what seemed like a pen only artists would use. In his squatting position, he began flipping to a blank page. As he flipped through his notebook, I saw pages and pages of faces that seemed pretty surreal, it seemed like he had previously sketched them.
Sure enough, as soon as he found a blank page, he started sketching the faces of random, unsuspecting people on the train. He would take a couple of glances, sketch what he noticed, and move on to the next commuter.
I caught him glancing at me a couple of times, I didn’t dare look at him when he did. I wonder how did my sketch turn out. He continued profiling unwary commuters as I tried my best to peek at his sketches through the reflection of the window behind him.
Remaining in that squatted position, he sketched on as commuters come and go. I don’t really think anyone noticed what he was doing, except two or three people.
And with that, the commuting writer wrote about the commuting artist.