Diners

The first time I saw him, he was digging ketchup out of a bottle with a knife. He was in his worn Rolling Stones tee and his crimson bandana held back his mop of crimson curls. He had his sleeves rolled up so I was able to see his intricate tattoos, trailing along is forearm. Watercolors lined his inner right arm but words enwrapped his left. His tongue peeked between his teeth as he concentrated steadily on the bottle, and his eyes matched the fresh mulch outside eyes he became fixated with getting the last bit of ketchup out. On that warm, sticky, summer Sunday, I knew I wanted to know him, to be a part of his world. I just never thought it would leave me in a frigid hospital bed with nothing but sterilized machines to track my feeble heartbeat.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s