Sketching Memories

Despite the shady areas and maniacal people in San Francisco, I have always felt safe. Even during the dark hours when drunks and gangs outnumber the average citizen, I have never doubted my security. Keep to yourself and you’ll be fine was the motto I followed religiously. It had yet to fail me. So the feet shuffling precariously through the sand didn’t alarm me too much. I was obscured in the shadows, so it was only after the figure groped under the slide that my ears began to ring.

“Hey loser,” Leah said, settling down beside me, “Did I scare you?” Her pallor deeply contrasted the night and I was surprised I hadn’t identified her earlier.

Friends have never been a category in my life. There have only ever been people I tolerate and people I don’t. Leah has always belonged in the first group. I cannot recall how we met. Time tends to smudge memories and even upon meticulous scrutiny, one can only recall blunt facts. But I tend to believe that obsessing over a scene that could easily have been reverie to uncover the details of clothing or color is pointless. The outcome of such incidents is what trails us to the present.

However, Leah has almost always been there. A silhouette in most of my memories, a blur of color unnoticeable in every photograph. She accepts my silence, and over the years has accumulated enough knowledge to her satisfaction: my birthday, favorite color, and preferred sketching location. Patient and light-hearted, her only flaw was her intermittent dogmatic phrases, although they can get the best of us.

“He looks like you,” she stated referring to the child in my sketchbook, “something about the eyes.”

“My eyes are blue,” I said matter-of-factly.

“Very pretty too,” she responded, grinning at my scowl. Even though she was satiated with her unanswered questions and one-sided conversations, she couldn’t avoid restlessness after a while. I waited until she got bored of my dullness and left before making my way home, a crumpled paper in my fist.