Sketches at La Cafe--The boy

These notes I jotted down while waiting for a family movie to start--The Incredibles.  Yes, I know.  Anyway, I only started these last night, and then finished them today.

Sketches at La Cafe--The Boy

Seated outside with the soft breezes playing through my hair, I take a long sip of the strongly steeped tea, its fragrance filling my nostrils.  I breath a deep sigh as I place the teacup back on the saucer.  Strains of music from some place down the street wafts to me upon the air, soft notes of the violin mingling with the crisp picking pattern of the guitar under the skilled fingers of its musician.  The scents of roses--red, yellow, pink, and soft blushed peach--and the sweet smelling tea and cakes being passed back and forth on trays by the waiters fill La Cafe.  

Suddenly, a commotion across the street catches my eye.  A group of boys are all clustered around another lad, who is busy performing acrobatic feats.  His hair is red as a tomato, freckles covering every spare inch of his face, crooked teeth showing through his equally lopsided grin.  His appearance is dirty and his trousers are patched with mismatched fabrics.  Amid mutterings of encouragement and doubt, the boy flips himself onto his hands and walking around on the pavement, teetering first one way, then the other for balance.  

Eventually though, he topples over to much laughter and yelling from his friends, quickly righting himself amid slaps on the back.  He talks rapidly in french, spouting words while gesturing with his hands and re-living his moment of triumph.  He is laughing now, and as he looks up, he catches my eye across the lane.  Contrary to his crooked smile and two missing front teeth, the look in his eyes is mature--almost as if, young though he is, he has had much responsibility pushed upon him.  As he looks quickly away, I reached for a scrap of paper and the pen I always kept around me.  I continue to study the boy as he does a few back handsprings, then snaps up what few pennies the passersby cast at him.  

I watch him, as he, still surrounded by the rowdy group of boys, heads down to turn onto an adjoining street--out of sight.  I cannot think of a name to capture his wild appearance, and so I christen him The Boy, not knowing what else to call him.  I take a sip of my now-cold tea, and fold up the piece of paper upon which these notes are scrawled.  

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