He took a long look in the mirror, got the next stroke on. It was perfect. Slowly the self portrait was taking form. It looked more alive than anything he’d ever painted before, anything he’d ever seen. Every new stroke made it better, every next step made it more real.
He studied every little detail in the mirror, every little colour, every last wrinkle, every shadow. It looked real. More than real. More real than…
Gerog came home from work, threw his bag in a corner and went out on the porch. He sat there for a while, listening to the silence. He loved silence. His note pad was lying on the table, he must have forgotten it outside yesterday. Lucky it didn’t rain. He made a little sketch. A sketch of a man with a big head and strange hair.
The phone rang. He went inside to pick it up. Wrong number. He grabbed a soda from the fridge and went back out. He looked at the note book. The sketch was gone.
That’s strange… He said out loud. He went through the pages, maybe the wind had turned them. Nothing.
Looking for me?
Gerog opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. His sketch was sitting on the fence, smiling at him….