After a cursory glance the man proceeds quickly, almost tripping over the artist who is on his hands and knees, to the next street lamp under which an old man has drawn portraits of passersby for a small fee. The man thinks of the next morning when all these personalities will be scuffed into oblivion by the single-minded friction of working feet. He squats on the wooden stool that has been provided for him. Glimpses of his pale belly can be seen between the buttons of his shirt as his corpulence settles across his spread thighs. Through the haze of smoke rising from the old man's insistently glowing cigarette he scans the faces that drift by.
Minutes pass quietly.
He can sense his face beginning to form on the pavement. Then, on a sudden whim, he takes out his wallet from the inside pocket of his suit and begins to rifle through the card holder. After a moment he gingerly slides out a sepia-toned photograph of a woman. He hands it over to the old man, who smiles and nods wordlessly as if acknowledging a familiar gesture. When the man in the white linen suit looks down at the completed portrait, he sees himself and the woman in an old-fashioned cameo, their demurely smiling gazes slightly downcast and toward each other.