At a café I meet this strange French man:
Middle-aged, sharp sapphire eyes and shaved hair.
His lips purse and his hand extends, “Manu”
His hands are scaly, rough, covered in black ink,
his fingers raw, a cigarette between them.
Our hands meet, we exchange a friendly smile.
He speaks two tongues, like a bird soaring with ease.
We discuss our mundane daily routines.
I like his company since he is honest.
We shuffle across the street for some supper.
He stands, tall and lean, his clothes are very simple:
Shirt, ripped jeans, his shoes have holes worn through them.
We sit down at a table near the window.
He tells me of his work, watercolours,
of his apartment, just up the alley.
He doesn’t own anything of real value,
No need to. He is content in his heart..
We dine and muse about our lives over
table wine. Then, from his pocket he pulls
a pen and asks if he can sketch my portrait.
He scribbles down effortless images.
Modest about the merit of his work,
he shrugs off the accolades I hand him.
His hand moves swiftly over the cream canvas.
My mysterious blue eyes catch his focus.
He moves next onto the rim of my lip.
Full, delicate, and fine, my mouth smiles bright.
My nose, he perfects, a flawless straight line.
His hand stops cold and ceases to dance as.
he hands me the place matt of the picture;
he says this piece is mine to keep always; it’s divinity.
“It’s late”, he imparts, we agree to leave.
We move to the ancient door and step outside,
a slither of street light catches the side of his face,
two kisses cheek to cheek, as he treads lightly away.
“Au revoir”, he calls moving into the darkness.
That was the last time I ever saw humble Manu,
While his fine company was short in length,
his life impressed upon mine forever.
-Dana Octavie
