He was out there this morning.
I had a feeling he might be starting before the heat or the rain of the day makes his job too difficult. I was eating my toast and jam (standing up in my kitchen of course) when I heard a couple voices below the window. Two neighbors from down the block were chatting with him about the spaceship that he had left over the rear tire while the rest of the car had seemingly over night returned to blank palate – white paint covering up the cartoon characters on the body of the car while a great wave now covers the hood of the car where odes to Johnny Cash and Ray Charles were emblazoned a year ago. He stood there pencil in his thin fingers, worn out trucker hat covering his nest of grey, taking in their comments and compliments with a smile. I watched from my breakfast and contemplated how late I could afford to be to work if I just stayed and watched for a bit. I sat down next to the window but then felt as if I was too obvious of an eavesdropper on his artistic process. Instead I packed my lunch, grabbed my bag and keys, and headed for the door. As I walked the half block from my alley to my car he was cross-legged next to his car, book in hand plotting out the course for his paintbrush.