Gentleman in pastel blue jumper
Posted on May 28, 2016
The gentleman in pastel blue jumper, sitting right in front of me.
I could see the good look of his eyes. He spend here a good couple of hours.
Three empty coffee cups standing on his table. And right next to them, another two cups, filled up with water.
Smooth move of his hand, his face was focused and covered in emotions. Paintbrush dancing on a piece of paper, creating beautiful, small pictures of peoples life, all so colorful.
He looked at them, one by one, slowly. I fell in love in the way, how he holds them, as they would be so fragile they could fall apart. Magnificent, it truly was.
A lady in colorful dress, with her child next to her side, a beautiful house among the trees and mountains. I wanted to ask him to tell me, what story hides behind every painting.
This Gentleman in pastel blue jumper, was seating alone, getting up from time to time to shut the doors of the cafeteria, which were left open by much too many people.
He seemed to be happy, locked in his own world, where he could do whatever he wanted to, where he could be who ever he wanted to be at this time. He had that special way of looking at other people. He was watching them, just as much as I watched him. Every move, smile. I watch it all, and I waited for more, patiently
Astonishing how rare are people like this Gentleman in pastel blue jumper.
Two young girls sat next to his side. They had a fine talk about his works. The gentleman in pastel blue jumper smiled in the most wonderful way, he possibly could.
He said a word, or maybe a little more and showed them his vivid works, he was so proud of. It wasn't a long talk, as his painting brush was shouting for the return of his hand. Looked like he could not stand to stay still.
I lifted my head from above of my notebook, and then I saw him passing by.
He stopped, and he looked at my notebook. He said not even a word.
He stood there, in complete silence. He just smiled from ear to ear.
- What a wonderful writing! Great, I love it! - he speaks slowly, but his his voice is strong and clear. I felt a bit uncomfortable, as I was writing about him. I do wonder what would he say, if he would know... I shall never find out.
- That's great - he says and go away. I could not say more than simple "Thank you Sir"
Suddenly he was back on his chair, next to his cups, with his beloved paintbrush.
Lovely Gentleman in pastel blue jumper.
He posted a smile for me, or two. It looked like he knew, who I was writing about.
No one like to be observed, yet he did not mind.