A man and child are throwing paper airplanes back and forth. Above me, a veteran is dragging heavy footsteps and wheels across the floor, casting bright reflections by my bare feet. I am winning this game! the child exclaims, throwing a sharp edge deep into the ground, convinced that no one will beat him. His dark and underdeveloped feet fly over the dark carpet that so inefficiently covers the wooden interior of this old building, once a factory. The paper plane hits my foot as the child feigns confusion, Why you throw it over THERE, grandpa? His, You told me to throw it over there! is filled with laughter as his heart explodes with love for this boy that resembles everything he was six decades ago. I pick it up and throw it back as it sails smoothly through the thick air, veering to the left and landing at the child’s right foot. I am rewarded with a tiny mouthful of teeth and the most genuine sprinkle of laughter that I’ve heard in years.
The man from the other day is back, his jacket is missing. Today he is dressed nicely, a grey button down desperately in need of the heat of an iron, navy blue pants. He looks shocked, I am not surprised at all. His white socks are awkwardly peering out from behind his dark muddy shoes as he sits at the table and stares at me without once breaking contact. Damn, he’s good. I am unsure of my comfort level but I no longer feel the urge to run away, perhaps I am simply void of energy, of any sort of desire to disappear. I admire the red hair he so proudly shows today, observing how it contrasts fluidly with the dull grey that covers his large body. I am reading about jazz while he is folding his right hand under his left, his left hand under his right. I am twisting my feet in an anxious jumble while he is staring at my face intently, searching for any sort of emotion, expecting to see fear and disgust but seeing pleasant understanding instead. I am trying to process words but I feel the awkwardly loud presence of another’s eyes, conspicuously soaking in all that exists. I have had enough and raise mine to meet his, smile brightly and almost immediately send a sea of crimson rushing across his face, an electrical charge to his legs that lifts him out of his seat in a frenzied stupor. He stumbles to the store that sells comic books, or perhaps the record store covered in dust, and his journey is completed by several glances over his shoulder, meeting of the eyes, a transfer of energy, of knowledge and odd familiarity. Silently I thank him.
