circumstantial friends in a letterpress studio
there was a softness that shaped every part of him. he had soft blue eyes that actually met yours when you spoke. his voice was soft and clear, even from across the room. his lips curled into soft smiles when we said hello.
we shared a printing press. as we cleaned the ink from the rollers, passing bottles of solvent between our gloved hands, we casually conversed. he was innocently inquisitive, asking me more questions in an afternoon than everyone else had asked me the entire week. i’d answer them, and return the questions to him. he was vulnerable in a way few people are, and open without advertising it. late afternoon would turn to evening, the solvents would return to the cabinets, and he would depart, but not without exchanging a soft goodbye. he was kind and rare, but i never knew him well enough to tell him so.
he had an ordinary name. i remember it, but i’ll keep it to myself. if i say it, i must admit that i think about him. if i admit that i think about him, i must also admit that he doesn’t think about me. i was ordinary and abrasive, one of the circumstantial friends that parade through a life. he was the kind of person you only meet once.