For Art's Sake

He came into the café where I worked every day at 2pm. Every day at 2pm he drank a cup of coffee. Black and it must have been cold, for he sat with his back to the counter, staring through the window. Staring out the window for a half an hour at least before taking a sip. And then he would draw on napkins, ten at least, sipping his coffee as if he were taking a drag on a much needed cigarette. Day after day, and not much was said. It was nice when he came, like routine. I looked forward to his long mess of dark curls and somber brown eyes, nothing particularly attractive, but I liked something about him. It was the day he had a fire in his eyes that I started to notice. The day he drank his coffee hot and blinked nearly not at all.

Cup in both hands, shoulders hunched, sipping.

He finished the cup and took my hand, paying for the cup with a tip too.

He did not say a word.

He just grinned and looked into my eyes, my cheeks mirrored the fire in his eyes.

Then I started to notice.

I noticed when he was gone. His normal chair would draw my eyes as if it were covered with blinking neon lights with music.

He skipped a day and he seemed different.

He skipped two days and seemed paler somehow.

Then he came and his hair was shaved.

Then the circles beneath his eyes looked as if they would swallow his brown eyes.

One more day, he came in, thin and muttering.

I was afraid, I didn’t want to look at him anymore.

All I heard him say was “turned to brown. Masterpiece, but it’s all brown.”

Then I saw the ambulance and police cars, and his pale thin body rolled out on a stretcher.

I guess the day he tipped me was the day he went mad.

The day he decided to use his blood for paint.

The day he made paint brushes from his long dark hair.

The day he died, he must have run out of paint.

The paint turned brown, and he just couldn’t keep it alive.

So at 2pm, I take my break and drink a cup of coffee, cold, and look out the window.

I don’t know if he was from this city, or this country, or what his name was. He never said much of anything.

I don’t look out the window to find out why he did it.

Not to go mad like they say he did.

Every day at two I think of a man I never knew. Every day at two I remember a person that others may forget or never know, filling the chair that was once filled by him. I look out the window and doodle on napkins drinking my cold black cup of coffee; not to go mad like he.

But for his sake.

For art’s sake.

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/aravis121/