By Cheryl Rushing

This is a character sketch of sorts that I wrote in 2004.  I was studying for an exam at the library and he caught my attention.

Two tables ahead he sits, back to me.  Shoulders stretch his T-shirt to touchable tautness.  Blonde, I presume.  His eyebrows are blonde over the blue eyes that watched me come in and settle.  He told the man next to him that his rates would go down when he turns 30 next month.  Insurance?

The hair on the sides of his head is shorn, but not freshly.  It has a week of growth, perhaps more, and is the soft blonde of a newborn baby.  The middle of his hair rises up three inches from his scalp, mohawked, defiantly teal.

It suits him.

His ears turn red as I study him, and his scalp tinges pink.  He knows I am watching, he can feel my eyes.  You’d think he would be used to it by now: looks, stares, double-takes.

A sidelong glance now over his right shoulder, verifying I’m still here.  Am I looking?  Perhaps not, as I’m opening my notebook to the final page to write these very words.  He turns back, trying to pretend I’m not here.

Ears are still red.  When you are trying hard to concentrate, you touch your face more.  And you stop moving your feet in that ratta-tat-tat against the legs of the chair.

Still here.