The Artist

Art by Aaron Fung

"Who is he?" asked the young woman.

"Who's who?" replied the man.

They were vacationing in a small time-shared house, one of many of the exact type. Across from them was a deep lake with a small pier, on which floated a few boats. The distant sun cast a long shadow from the reads and the stilted houses,

The man in question had dragged a chair out to the pier and was sketching in a notebook, looking out across the lake. He had short brown hair and a strangely intent look about him, despite a rather informal dress of a t-shirt, shorts and sandals.

"Well, I don't know." replied the man. "I haven't seen him around. Why don't you go ask?"

And so she wend down the gentle slope to the pier, walking up behind the man. He didn't look up, merely continued his work.

"Hi." said she.

"Hi." said the man, still looking down at his paper.

"What are you drawing?" she asked.

"I don't know." he replied.

He sounded genuinely vexed, but his hand kept on moving, filling out the features of a man. He seemed older, bald, and a little angry.

"Why are you drawing it?"

"I have to." he replied.

She was standing beside him now. She sat down on the pier, thinking.

"You're strange." she said.

"Maybe." he answered. "And maybe you're strange and I'm the ordinary one."

Her feet were dragging through the water, soaking her tennis shoes and socks, but she didn't care.

"I'm not strange." she answered. "You're the one drawing things you don't even know."

"Yes." he replied. "But you're the one talking to the dead."