The scar was barely noticeable, and my eyes were heavily rimmed and ringed with charcoal,
reminding me of a program I’d watched recently about lemurs.
My lips were painted the color of Earl Haig poppies. “Well,” she said, “what do you think?”
“I look like a small Madagascan primate, or perhaps a North American raccoon,” I said. “It’s charming!”
She laughed so much she had to cross her legs, and she shooed me down from the chair and toward the door.
“I’m supposed to try and sell you the products and brushes,” she said. “If you want any, come back tomorrow and ask for Irene!”
I nodded, waved good-bye. Whoever Irene was, there was literally more chance of me purchasing weapons-grade plutonium from her.
The musician must have been experiencing a maelstrom of emotions at this moment.
A shy, modest, self-effacing man, a man who is forced to perform because of his talent, to share it with the world,
not because he wants to, but because he simply has to. He sings in the way that a bird sings;
his music is a sweet, natural thing that comes like rain, like sunlight, something that, perfectly, just is.
I thought about this as I ate my impromptu dinner. I was in a fast-food restaurant for the first time in my adult life,
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