Sand

*** Routine.

One could say that the whole thing really began when I changed my running route. For the year or so that I had been living in the neighborhood, I’d run the same course every morning at five. I liked to keep in shape and found that the easiest way to do it was to run; not too far, just a couple of miles. Of course, I supplemented the exercise with a good diet.

This was quite adequate to keep my body lithe and supple and keep me fit and healthy. So without fail, apart from a few very unusual circumstances, I ran every morning along the same route; down the street, through the park, around the college field and then back again; about two miles.

As I was leaving my apartment, the door opposite mine slowly opened and The Artist, as I called him, stuck his head out. He reached down and picked up his newspaper, cast me a quick glance and a soft ‘Good morning!’ and then quietly disappeared behind his door.
“Good morning.” I said belatedly. I shook my head in amusement and went on my run.

The Artist, I didn’t know his name, just the initials on his mailbox – N.G., had been living there when I moved in. I’d never met him officially, but I’d seen him nearly every morning, just as I’d seen him on this particular morning. He was quiet, very shy and a bit of a loner. I’d never seen anyone come to his apartment and I had never seen him leave it and as far as I knew, he had no family. I knew he was an artist because the landlord had mentioned it once.

He was about my age and tall and slim from what I’d seen of him. He had long shoulder length, dark blond hair which always hung loose around his face. His eyes, from what I could tell in the dim light of the hall, were green; an emerald green, an eye color I had not seen on many people. The rest of his face was a little hard to discern. Because my glimpses of him were so brief and because his features were usually in shadow, it was always a little difficult to remember exactly what I’d seen.

Then one morning after my brief meeting with The Artist, for some obscure reason, I changed my route. Instead of going north along the street, I turned south. In no time I found myself down at the beach front. I thought that it would be quite pleasant to run along the beach so I jogged down onto the sand and set off along the water’s edge. It was heavenly.

The sea air was cool and bracing and the sponginess of the wet sand put a little extra strain on my legs, making the workout more beneficial. I passed a children’s playground and ran on until I reached the point. I turned around and started back. At the playground, I stopped and jogged in place, letting my muscles wind down. Then I did a few stretches and when I was ready, I walked home at a steady pace.

Work was the usual grind, the gallery fairly busy at this time of the year. I had a new exhibition to mount and the days sped by, melding one into the other.

My routine remained the same; a quick ‘Good morning!’ from The Artist, a bracing run along the beach and then the bustle of the gallery. My life was in a rut. I knew it but couldn’t seem to get out of it and to be perfectly honest, I didn’t want to. It was secure; I earned good money, had a nice apartment and one very close friend along with several others, so there was really no reason to make any major changes.

“You know something, David?” Brian, my closest friend said to me one day after staring at me critically. “You are stagnating.”

We’d just watched a movie in my apartment as we sometimes did during the week. We worked together and we often shared a meal and a movie, either at my apartment or at his place, just a block away.

“No I’m not.” I said.
“Yes you are.” He replied. “Why don’t you go out, have fun. For God’s sake, get a lover or a dog or something.”
“Too much bother.” I said. “I’m thirty, not a teenager. I don’t need complications in my life and I’m quite happy as I am, thank-you.”
“Really?” He said grimly. He studied me carefully. “I think you need to get laid. When was the last time you had sex?”

“Brian, I don’t need to get laid.” I said with a grin. “And I hardly think my sex-life is any of your business. We might be close friends, but we’re not that close. Besides you’re straight and I really don’t think my love life would interest you in the least.”
“I suppose you’re right.” He said. “I honestly don’t want to know.”

Later, I thought about what he’d said. Maybe he was right and I did need to make a change in my life. But then thinking about it logically, I was quite happy as I was so why change anything.

*** Words.

However, a change did come from an unexpected quarter and it sneaked up on me unawares.
I’d been running the new route for nearly two weeks when I noticed it. I stopped at the playground as I usually did, to wind down; when something caught my eye. A patch of sand next to the low wall of the playground had been smoothed over and something had been written in it.
I walked over to it and read the deep scratches.

Hello David.

I went cold and quickly looked around, concerned that maybe some-one was watching me. But being quite early still, there was no-one in sight. I looked down at the greeting in the sand again. Coincidence, I thought. Some kid had probably written it last evening and it had not been disturbed since. I shrugged it off, smoothed the message away with my foot and got on with the day.
The next morning, there was another message in the sand.

Have a nice day, David.

I looked around again, gooseflesh popped out on my arms making the hair on them stand straight up. Like yesterday, the beach was devoid of life apart from the seagulls. I looked down at the words in the sand again. Were they meant for me? I couldn’t tell. Maybe it was just another weird coincidence. I rubbed the message out and thought no more of it.

The message in the sand the next morning was meant for me. There was no doubt about it.

Enjoy your run, David. Have a good day.

I sat on the playground wall, my eyes riveted on the words scrawled in the smooth sand.

Whoever had written it meant it for me and only me. The author knew my name and in all likelihood, I knew the author. Strangely, I didn’t get a feeling of menace from the words. The message content was friendly enough and I had a distinct feeling that it was meant to be so. I came to a decision. I smoothed the sand over and wrote my own message.

Who are you?

I left it at that and went on with the day. The sand ‘pen’ pal would probably not get my message because within an hour or so, people would be coming onto the beach and it was bound to be trampled over.
I was wrong.

A friend.

I stared at those two simple words. If this mysterious person was a friend, why didn’t he reveal himself. Why write messages in the sand, messages that I might not even see.
I left another message for this ‘friend’ and went on my way.

Hello friend. What is your name?

The answer the next morning was:-

What’s in a name. It’s just an empty word.

Question:-

You know mine, why not tell me yours?

The next morning the answer was there for me to see.

You can call me Sand.

I asked:-

Are you male or female?

Sand answered:-

Would it matter?

My reply to this:-

No but I would like to know.

Sand did relent and tell me that he was a man.

My next question was:-

Have you a purpose in this?

Reply:-

Must there be a purpose? Is this not enough?

This last message was left for me on a Friday morning.
I wrote:-

You call yourself friend. Friends meet face to face.

I left it at that and waited impatiently for Saturday morning. My plan was to go on my run as usual, read my message, leave a reply and then pretend to go home as usual. Only, I would circle around the block and sneak back and watch the playground from a distance.
During the day, Brian commented on my restlessness.

“What’s up, buddy?” He asked. “You seem a little agitated.”
“Nothing.” I said airily. “Just glad it’s the weekend, that’s all.”

He seemed to be satisfied with that but I think he had an idea that something was going on. At this stage, I didn’t want to say anything about my mysterious ‘sand’ pal.

A face is a mask. Your true worth is in your heart.

I stared down at the words in the sand. Today I was going to carry out my little plan. I would watch the sand patch for as long as it took and I would take note of any-one who took an interest in it.
I smoothed the sand over and wrote:-

I’m lonely. I need a friend I can talk to. Face to face.

I thought this might get his attention although the part about being lonely wasn’t the truth. I left the message, ran up the beach and then up my street for a block. I doubled back down another street to the beach front. I walked slowly down to the boardwalk and found a sheltered corner under it from where I could see the patch of sand clearly.

After about twenty minutes, around sixish, bodies started to appear on the beach. A man walked down the sand slowly, right past the playground and didn’t even glance in the direction of the smooth patch of sand. Soon the beach began to fill up. People came and went and every now and then, a woman stopped briefly at the playground, glanced down at my message and then continued on.

I discounted the women that stopped at the playground. I knew that Sand might have lied about his gender but for now, I assumed that he’d told the truth. Only two men actually stopped and looked at the message. One was an elderly gent who hobbled along the beach with a walking stick. I hardly think that he was the one who had left the messages. The other was a teenager, who read my message and then jumped on it and messed it up. It had been a little difficult to tell who took an interest in the sand and who didn’t. Any one of the men who had walked by in the last hour could have read the message at a glance without even stopping so I assumed that Sand had done exactly that.

Another thing, I’d forgotten about the boardwalk. I was sitting below it in its shadow. Anyone could have easily read the message from the boardwalk with a pair of binoculars. The binoculars didn’t even have to be that powerful because it wasn’t such a great distance between the boardwalk and the playground wall where the sand patch was. So my little exercise proved to be quite fruitless.

“Talk to Me”

Sunday morning, The Artist greeted me in his usual fashion as I left for my run. As was my routine now, I stopped at the playground on my way back to get my message from Sand.

Talk to me. Confide in me.

His answer to my last message was short and concise. I sat on the wall and studied the words drawn in the sand. How could I talk to him like this? There was so much I wanted to say, so much I wanted to know and the idea of writing these things down in the sand was a little daunting. It was all very well leaving a message of a few words, but how do you communicate properly on the sand? I got up and wrote a short message and left.

On the sand?

I spent the day with a couple of guys that I had known for years. Dean and Charlie were good friends but I was never as close to them as I was to Brian. Strange I know, that my closest friend was straight, but that’s the way it was.

Dean and Charlie shared a house but they were not a couple. I think they might have had a relationship many years ago but now they were just good friends. Dean harped on about a boyfriend he’d been seeing on and off for over a year now. He was frustrated because the relationship seemed to be going nowhere. Charlie blatantly flirted with me, dropping broad hints at every opportunity. He’d been wanting to sleep with me for ages and I was just not interested.

He was funny, charming and attractive in a boy-next-door kind of way but he was just not my type. He was too frivolous and maybe a little too fickle. I knew that a relationship with him would never last. We were very different and anything that developed between us would be short-lived and probably highly explosive. I liked him as a friend and that was as far as I was prepared to go.

“We worry about you, David.” Dean said carefully. “You seem so alone. Why don’t you find yourself a nice caring man and settle down.”
“I’m already settled.” I said. “I have a good job and a nice apartment; I have my friends and I’m happy. What more could I want?”
“Sex!” Charlie said with a huge wink. “I’ll oblige you.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.” I said with a laugh.
“When was the last time you got laid?” Dean asked. “I mean, eye-ball rolling laid; mind-blowing laid?”
“Can’t remember.” I said in all honesty. “I haven’t had a relationship with any-one for a couple of years now.”

“No!” Dean said. “I mean a hot one night stand. When was the last time?”
“Dean, even when I was younger, I never had one night stands.” I said. “The thought appalls me.”
“David, you’re still young.” He replied. “You’re what? Thirty?” I nodded.

“Well, thirty is still young.” He continued. “You’re wasting your life away.”
“Dean, I’m quite happy as I am, thanks.” I said.

As I said it, I knew it was a half-truth. I was happy, yes, to a certain point. I suddenly realized that what I’d said in the message to Sand was the truth. I was lonely and I yearned for that special something that you could only get from a relationship. I missed the intimacy and more importantly I missed the love.
That night, for the first time in an age, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the people I knew. My closest friends only numbered five, I was stunned to realize.

There was Brian; Dean and Charlie; doctor Jack and Georgia, my only female friend. The rest of the people I knew were either acquaintances or colleagues. I knew then that my life meant very little to any-one. I had no family so when I died, there would only be five people at my funeral. Five! That’s if all of them came, of course.

Then there was Sand. He claimed to be my friend. Was this the truth or was he playing a silly game which he would soon grow tired of and stop. I suddenly knew that I didn’t want him to stop. I wanted to talk to him, I wanted to confide in him, even if it was through messages written in the sand. I realized that I had come to depend on them; I needed them. How sad was that? My entire existence came down to a few words scrawled in a patch of sand on the beach.

So the next morning, I waited outside my door a little earlier than normal. As The Artist opened his door, I stepped forward, my hand held out.

“Hi.” I said quickly with a bright smile. “I’m David, David Palmer.”
“Good morning.” He whispered and stared at my hand hovering in the air.
“We’ve never actually met.” I said, my hand still floating in mid-air.
“No.” He whispered. “I’m . . um . . I . . !”

And then he suddenly drew back and disappeared behind his door. So much for that I thought; so much for trying to make a new friend.
The message in the sand was a little obscure this time.

The rocking horse bites!

What?? What did Sand mean? And what did a rocking horse have to do with anything?

I sat on the wall in thought. Rocking horse, rocking horse; the words kept repeating themselves in my mind. And then I knew what he meant. I jumped up and looked behind me. The playground was laid out in front of me, the equipment shining in the morning light, covered with dew. And there it was: a rocking horse; one of those huge affairs on sliding springs. I vaulted the wall and jogged up to the horse and looked at it carefully. I couldn’t see anything unusual at first.

The rocking horse bites!

Of course, I thought. I bent down and looked into its mouth and there it was. Pushed to the back of its gaping throat was a piece of paper carefully rolled around a short pencil.
I eased it out and sat on the horse and unrolled the paper gently. It was a note from Sand.

David,
I think this might be an easier way for us to communicate, so I hope you understood the meaning of the message in the sand.

You say you are lonely. Well, a man can stand in a room surrounded by close friends and relatives and still feel lonely. So you see, loneliness is a state of mind and if you let it become a burden then it will weigh you down. Don’t let it be so. Acknowledge it and declare it as a fact of your life. If it is a fact, then it is no longer a worry and it will not drag you into despair. It is like happiness and contentment. No-one is ever truly happy and no-one can ever be truly content.

There are degrees of happiness and most people go through life quite content with their own level of happiness. True happiness can only be achieved by shedding all the small things that clutter up one’s life. Insecurities, stress, discontent and of course, loneliness. I will teach you to embrace your loneliness, to be content with it and I will show you how to be happy.

I have left a blank sheet of paper and a pencil for you to write me.
Sand.

For the first time in many, many years I cried. The tears flowed down my cheeks and at that precise moment, I had never felt more alone.

*** Communications.

Sand,
There is one thing that your words have given me: hope. I hope I can learn from you. I hope I can learn to be happy and I hope I can learn to not feel so alone.

You have no idea what you have done for me already. You have given me purpose. You have motivated me to make a change in my life; to make new friends and to try and find the love and intimacy that I crave.
You are my first new friend. I need your friendship and it is still my wish to meet you.
David.

I rolled the paper around the pencil and carefully pushed it back into the horse’s mouth. I folded the note from Sand and put it safely in my pocket. It would be something that I would treasure forever. Sand had shaken me up; woken up a spark of life in me that unknowingly, had withered and died. I slowly walked home, a lot happier than I’d been in a long time.

The next morning I again waited patiently for The Artist to make his appearance. This time I would try harder. I would try to get him to talk to me. I would try to make a new friend.

Soon enough, his door opened silently and he stuck his head out and reached down for his paper. Then he stopped and looked up at me a little puzzled. I stretched out my hand and held his paper out to him. He straightened and took it from me carefully.
“Good morning.” He whispered. “Thanks . . !”

“Look, I would really like to get . . !” I began.
“Um . . oh God . . !” He gasped cutting me off.

He looked at me and sighed; his eyes rolled back into his head and he folded in half neatly and crumpled to the floor. I stared at him helplessly for a second and then flew into action. I bent and felt his forehead. He was burning up with fever and his skin felt hot and clammy.

I pushed his door open and lifted him up, threw his arm across my shoulders and dragged him into his apartment. I laid him on a day-bed which was situated in the middle of the room. I stood and glanced around quickly. I have no idea what I expected his apartment to be like, but I was pleasantly surprised. He lived like a hermit from what I could tell, so I suppose I thought his apartment to be dark and dingy. It was the complete opposite. It was clean and tidy, not a thing out of place.

The drapes and the windows were open wide, which made the whole space light and airy. The walls were painted in a light mushroom color and were covered with brightly colored posters. Movie posters, enlarged book covers and beautifully painted ‘sword and sorcery’ type posters.

I felt his forehead again and he rolled his head away from my hand and groaned. I saw the telephone and moved to it quickly. I dialed a number and waited impatiently for it to be answered. Eventually, I heard a bleary voice on the other end of the line.
“It better be damned important.”

“Doctor Jack?” I said into the receiver quickly. “I need your help. My neighbor just collapsed. He’s running a fever. Can you meet me at the hospital . . !”

The Artist moaned loudly.
“No . . not hospital . . can’t go to hospital . . !” He groaned indistinctly.
“Hang on.” I said into the receiver. I leaned closer to The Artist.
“You need to be in a hospital.” I insisted.

“No . . no . . please . . !” He moaned. “Just a bit of flu . . not the hospital . . !”
“Doctor Jack.” I continued into the phone. “He won’t go to the hospital. Could you possibly . . !” I left it hanging.
“I’ll be over just now.” Jack replied. “I’ll stop in on my way to the surgery. Just give me time to get dressed. Keep him cool. Swab him down with a damp cloth.”
“Thanks.” I hung up.

“The doctor’s on his way.” I told The Artist. I found the bathroom and again was pleasantly surprised at how beautifully clean and tidy it was. I rinsed a face-cloth under the cold faucet and wrung it out.

I sat on the edge of the day bed and gently mopped his brow. I loosened the buttons of his shirt and spread it open. His chest and belly were wet with sweat, his dark blond body hair matted. I gently swabbed his chest and belly and then went and rinsed the cloth out.

I sat down next to him again and studied him. It was the first time I’d actually seen what he truly looked like. His long blond hair, now damp with sweat, lay spread out over the cushion on the day-bed. His forehead was high and intelligent and his eyebrows were cleanly arched. His nose was narrow and straight and his lips were full. His chin was strong and sported a neat dimple. His body was tall and lean with not an ounce of fat on it and he looked extremely fit.

His muscles under his chest hair, were solid and well formed and his nipples were like dark copper coins. His belly was tight and ridged with a fine path of dark blond fur leading down to the waistband of his expensive jeans. His legs were long and slim under the denim, his thighs well muscled. I tried not to let my eyes linger on his well packed groin because I felt like I was spying on him, but I am gay after all and I couldn’t help myself. The bulge he sported was pretty impressive.

His feet were bare, the bone structure fine and narrow. He was an incredibly striking man up close and I wondered what could have happened to him that made him want to live in seclusion.
He rolled his head and his eyes flew open. The irises were a bright, clear emerald green, a very rare eye color and I gasped at how very beautiful they were.

“It’s okay.” I whispered. “The doctor’s coming.”
I gently dabbed at his forehead with the cloth.
“Sorry . . for the trouble . . !” He moaned. “So . . sorry . . !”
“It’s okay.” I said again. “It’s no problem.”
“Thank you . . !” He sighed.

I stared down at him and realized that I still didn’t know his name.
“What is your name?” I asked.

His eyes focused on my face and he smiled slightly.
“My name . . ?” He asked and I nodded.
“Nic . . my name’s Nic . . !” He sighed and then he closed his eyes and seemed to drop into a light sleep.

I took stock of the room. It was comfortably furnished. There was the day bed and a couple of cozy looking armchairs. There was a practical deal table and a straight backed chair neatly pushed under it. An expensive racing bicycle was leaning up against the wall near the door and there was a large angled drawing board in front of the window. I stood and wandered around the room looking at the posters on the wall. They were spectacular, the artwork fine and very detailed. I went over to the drawing board.

Pinned to it was a large drawing that he was obviously working on. I worked in a gallery so I knew art and I have to say that his work was exquisite. The half finished drawing on the board was an illustration for a book cover. Lying on the table next to the drawing board were a couple of opened envelopes addressed to Mr. N. Garin.

So my neighbor’s name was Nic Garin. I turned and looked at him. He seemed to be asleep. I went back to the posters on the wall and studied a couple of them. They were signed: N. Garin. His work was truly magnificent.
Just then I heard footsteps out in the hall and I went to the door and looked out. It was Doctor Jack.
“In here.” I called. “He’s in here.”

Jack followed me in and moved to the day-bed quickly. He did a quick thorough examination of Nic and then straightened and packed away his stethoscope. He wrote out a prescription and handed it to me.
“It’s just a touch of the flu.” He said. “Fill this out and give him two of the tablets twice a day. Give him a measure of the tonic three times a day and he’ll be fine in a day or two.”

He bent and gently closed Nic’s shirt over his naked chest.
“Thanks Jack, I appreciate it.” I replied.

Jack indicated the door with a nod of his head and took my arm. We went out into the hall and he pulled the door closed a little.
“Don’t shut it.” I whispered quickly. “I won’t be able to get in.”

He reached around the door and put the latch up and then closed it gently.
“Who is that? He asked quietly.

“I really don’t know him very well, just in passing.” I said. “His name’s Nic Garin. He sort of folded up on me this morning.”
“Well, give him the meds and he’ll be as good as new in no time.” He said.
“Thanks for coming, Jack.”

“No problem.” He paused and then looked at me and grinned. “I take it that you’ve noticed that he’s quite a hunky piece of manhood. He’s got quite a body on him!”
“Careful Jack.” I said with a grin. “He’s your patient.”

“I know, damn it!” He exclaimed. “The good looking ones always are. Sometimes it’s such a liability being a doctor. He’s probably straight anyway.”
“Don’t worry, Jack.” I said. “I’m sure there’s someone out there for you who is not a patient.”

“David.” He said carefully. “Everyone ends up being a patient at one time or another. Speaking of which, I haven’t seen you in a while. How are you?”
“I’m good, thanks.” I replied. “Staying fit and healthy.”

“Hmm.” He said looking me up and down, taking in my running shorts and vest. “I can see that. You look . . appealing!”
I laughed.
“Thanks, but remember that I’m also one of your patients.”
“I know, bugger it!” He sighed.

After he’d left, I checked on Nic again and then quickly ran down to the all-night drug store on the corner. I had the prescription filled and dashed back. I fed Nic the tablets and then made him swallow a spoonful of the tonic. I swabbed him down again carefully and was glad to see that he’d fallen into a restful sleep. His fever seemed to have eased off a little. I looked down at him. Jack was right, he was a fine specimen of manhood, and I wondered what it would be like to get to know him properly. I found a neatly folded light blanket and carefully covered him up and left, making sure that the latch on the door was up. Later, I would call the gallery and tell them I wouldn’t be in so that I could keep an eye on Nic throughout the day.

Finally I was able to get down to the beach. As it was already after six, I decided to forego my run so I jogged straight down to the playground. I went to the rocking horse and checked inside its open mouth. There was nothing there. I looked around and under the horse in case it had fallen out. There was no message for me. I went to the patch of sand and looked it over carefully but there was nothing there either. I was deeply disappointed and I realized how much I looked forward to the notes from Sand.

I stopped a passing woman and asked her for a piece of paper and a pencil. She obligingly tore a page from a notebook and handed it to me along with a pen. I sat and quickly scrawled a note to Sand while she waited. I gave the pen back to her and thanked her profusely. I sat and waited until I was alone and then I quickly rolled the note up and slipped it into the horse’s mouth. I walked home slowly, a little worried that maybe Sand had got tired of me and had decided to stop writing.

‘Please Sand, don’t desert me now’, I quoted words I’d written in the note in my mind, I need you. I repeated this mantra in my head over and over again, praying desperately that tomorrow, there would be word from him.

Sand,
No word from you this morning. For a brief moment, I despaired and wondered if you had grown tired of me and had decided to stop writing. But then I realized that there is probably a very good reason for it. Oddly enough, I trust you so I assume that this is the case.

Please, don’t desert me now, just when your words are beginning to make a difference in my life. Already, I think I have a new friend – my neighbor – a shy, retiring man who, like me, needs a friend. I hope I can help him as much as you have helped me.
Please, I ask you again, don’t leave me.
David.

*** Nic.

I went back to my apartment and quickly changed into more comfortable clothes and then checked up on Nic. He was sleeping peacefully. I found an art text book and sat in one of the comfortable armchairs and paged through it. I kept an eye on Nic all the while, but he continued to sleep. I must have dozed off because I was woken up a couple of hours later by his soft voice calling me.

“David! David?” He was half sitting up in the day-bed. “Please . . some water . . !”
I jumped up and went through to the kitchen and brought him a glass of water. I sat on the edge of the bed and held it for him while he drank.
“I’m sorry.” I said. “I fell asleep.”

He finished the water and I got another glass full and put it on the table next to the day-bed. I sat in the armchair facing him. All the while, he watched me with those startling green eyes.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“A bit better . . not so hot . . !” He mumbled. “Thank you . . for this . . !”
“It’s not a problem.” I said. “What are neighbors for?”

He looked away and I sensed that he was feeling a little uncomfortable.
“You must have some more of the tonic just now.” I said for want of something to say.

He looked at me.
“I must . . uh . . pay you . . for the medicines . . !” He said and tried to get out of the bed. I jumped up and pushed him back down gently and sat on the edge.
“Don’t worry about it now.” I said. “Forget it, it’s nothing.”
“Thank you.” He whispered.

“You gave me a bit of a fright, you know.” I said.
“Sorry.” He replied. “I thought . . I could . . you know . . fight it off.”
“Yeah.” I said. “Flu’s sneaky. It hits you harder than you think.”

There was a short silence while we assessed one another carefully.
“Your work is very impressive.” I said. “I work at an art gallery and I must say that in my experience, it’s some of the best artwork I’ve seen by far.”
“Thank you.”

“Is this all you do?” I said with a wave at the posters on the wall. “I mean, just book covers and posters. Do you paint at all?”
“I did once, . . but this . . uh . . pays well . . !” He answered. “Besides, it’s . . um . . pretty easy . . !”

I half wondered if he always spoke in fits and starts and if he ever completed a sentence properly or if it was because of the flu.
Another short silence.