Yesterday at work there was a lull behind the register when this very old man came in to ask if we had a French matte set or kit. Mike and I talked to him, told him No we don't have it; but this man was completely entrancing. He was small and very quiet, with the whitest of hair, wearing a fedora and a cream sport coat. He hooked his cane over his arm and he spoke with soft, wide gestures. He was French; as he spoke to us--about his friend who paints this way, about his friend who is a writer with odd habits, about his favorite places--his language was such that he spoke not so much English as French with English words (and yet he was completely understandable). He described sweeps and circles with his hands, conveyed entire emotions and opinions with small movements of his head. He simply enjoyed talking with us. There was something about speaking with him, being near him, that was just healing. Like laying down in the sunshine.

As the gentleman spoke to us, I looked over at Mike and he was just... transformed. Usually, Mike is a big question mark of a person. He was nice to me on my first day, helping me more than most of the others did; but since then he's been distant. With the people who've known him longer, he's well-spoken, matter-of-fact, funny, considerate, and downright garrulous. He is the sort of person that rather than be awkward, he'll be silent or absent. It's hard to know much about him at all. But when he was listening to the old man, his face softened and he looked like a boy. Like a wide-eyed, slouchy boy.

I was going to say, "If the scene could be visually typified, we would be sitting in a forest glen, two children listening raptly to a bard who could make pictures in the air with his stories."

But I nixed that. Because if the scene could be visually typified, we would be two just-barely-not-children, employees letting the business of an art store happen around us while we listen to an old frenchman in a sport coat and fedora.

Grace.

5:51 p.m. 2004-01-20�