Dawn Rider

It's more of a pilgrimage than anything else. A notebook that looks weathered like it's just been washed and dried with bricks is pulled from inside the drawer. This vessel is folded in half, as much as it's cardboard construction can be, and placed in the back, right pocket of his jeans. I assume this is for easy access. These jeans are unlike any of the others...they are the jeans of his trade. Embellished with years of work and play, they are worn through at the knees and marked at every angle with strokes of genius and dots of frustration. His pocket is lightened in the outline of the notebook.

From the warmth of my curled, fetal position under our blankets, I reluctantly stand and follow him into the kitchen. As he reaches the pantry, I lean into him and pull the worn papers from his pocket. He looks away with a grin as I muse at his plans, and I know that he's proud of his work. I look over the symbols, not able to decipher their meanings, and watch his profile with curiosity as he fills his day bag. His dark hair is no longer disheveled like it had been but is now damp; the smell of vanilla and cinnamon wafts in the air after him. I offer the hooded jacket he'd so often left in my care with a steady hand, and tug the zipper just to his collar.

The dark sky has lightened as much as it will today from a pitch black to muted grey, and I can't shake the insinuated chill from under my own layers. His eyes hesitate with my shiver at the bowl of fruit, and he pauses to tuck a few pieces into his bag. The echo of pleading in his gaze is reciprocated by mine and I pull the warmth of his body in close. Murmurs promising of the day's hours speeding by mixed with lips and tongues fall to the floor around us. We both know the time has come. His hooded form retreats with reluctance and he opens the door to the cold breeze of the Autumn air outside. I tug him back from the chill with a kiss at his jaw where it's sure to make him smile, and with that my artist is off to work.