Questions Part I

I can see him sitting in front of me. His hair is growing longer, his face darker. He’s getting older, I can see it. It’s in his eyes. His skin gives away more than he wants to offer. He shifts in his chair. His dark green corduroys gathering at his hips, he seems comfortable and easy. I don’t really know this man. Not really. But he’s sitting there, waiting for me to start asking him questions. Waiting for me to start the conversation. I pause, again, looking at his hands, folded across his chest. His black shirt tells me it’s had a full life, even hiding under the jacket he wears.

I lift my eyes to meet his and smile. He has the warmest eyes. He returns my gaze kindly and a flush enters his cheeks. Why, I have no idea. It’s almost as if suddenly he is nervous. This is not like him. He’s used to the stage, used to being watched. But right now, in this warm living room, he seems uneasy.

Question one.. He lets out a timid laugh, crosses his legs and starts answering.. I watch as he methodically twirls the ring on his finger. The wide silver band goes round and round. I almost become transfixed with the process until I realize he’s telling me a fantastic story. A story about a boy growing up with a strong sense of who he was and what he wanted. His eyes brighten at the mention of his mother, and equally darken. In one moment there’s joy, the next a divorce. He’s not so good at concealing his feelings.

Pausing only a moment, he returns to the story. He’s a boy traveling, working. He’s incredibly young and astoundingly gifted. He learns early on the value of giving everything you have for what you want, but also learns the pain of constant performance. I listen intently to his seemingly melodic response. His answer raises thousands of more questions for me. But I have to limit my curiosity.

Question two.. This time, he frowns, then closes his eyes. I wonder if he might not answer. His great pause captivates me. But he sighs deeply and gives the simplest answer. He doesn’t know. I can’t argue with that, so I go on. Before I ask another question I glance up to notice a slight pain in his face. I wonder if I have asked him something too personal. He’s gazing out the window. Suddenly he’s on edge.

Question three. A relief. Something he can easily assign an answer for. He is glad to respond to something so easy and begins by leaning forward in a familiar way. I watch him fumble the buttons on his sleeve. He launches into a story about being 16, and sitting at an old piano. He’s telling me about writing, working, and loving. He reveals stories about lovers, inadvertently perhaps. He talks about foolish choices, and immaturity. He’s being far more honest than I expected. And offering me more of himself than I ever hoped.

I stop and ask him if he’s like some tea. I wonder if he’s in need of some fresh air. Remembering these things can be terribly exhausting. He accepts my offer for tea, rises from his chair, and walks towards the kitchen. He is more than comfortable in this house. Removing his jacket, he tosses it across a chair and walks over to the stove. He lights the stove, turns around, and looking out the back door he begins asking me questions..