Fellow Artist

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He was in his mid twenties, maybe a boy at first glance. But with closer inspection the face of a man arose. He was a valet parking attendant and filled with the spark of great service. With a charming smile he swooped up our limp luggage and swung back for a quick smile. Yet under all that was evident, at a certain angle and in a certain mood I could see the swirls of emotions in each word he spoke. His voice grew grim in my thoughts and his appearance dull. Perhaps he was an artist by birth. And then I saw it. The familiar glare that all of my kind learn to know. As he took our bags his eye focused on a small key chain jingling on my bag as inspiration blossomed in his heart and mind. His mouth froze mid-sentence and his feet grew lankly in nature as profound thoughts flew through his mind. And without others noticing a small genuine grin crept on his face as a new idea came to mind. And so I know this one to be an artist but I fancy that, maybe that this very moment, he would be writing of me, his fellow artist.





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