boolar

“Looks like you’ve got a painting here. I’ll just need a signature there.”

“Awesome. We’ve been wondering where it was.”

“Well, wonder no more!”

As if I could stop wondering entirely, Mr. Mailman, just because you brought the painting, or would choose to if I could… I sincerely hope that I stop wondering only when the rest of my bodily functions cease.

If you know the man, you know that the painter captured him. Yes, it’s the blue eyes and long lashes, the stubbled chin and widow’s peak, those beautiful artists’ hands wrapped around a can of something intoxicating to drink, the t-shirt with its neck cut out, the roll-yr-own perched upon lips set onto a sun-burnt face that I’ve neglected but missed dearly, all the details are in place. It’s nice to have a very good painting of a friend, and one can never have enough paintings of cats.

Some day maybe when I’m grown up enough to write a novel, I’ll make him the hero.

Could be good.

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