The sky grays too fast.
And he plunked down on the cold seat of the subway, skytrain. Who could tell the difference really. Not on these days.
The feeble and fatigued easel struck awkwardly between the metal, and leaned there. He didn't attend to its comfort, and looked to his bag, then across his seat to mine. I couldn't hear anything, but something told me there was nothing to be heard. I reflected his weak smile of hard days and uncertain tomorrows, and almost forgot to notice him reaching for some box in his de-threaded sac.
Like there were no one around, he opened the flattened box, and I saw, from the corner of my prying eyes, a set of oil paints. The dozen or so deformed tubes laid randomly, scattered in their refuge. And he, his hands around them, like holding the bitter end of life, carefully and thoroughly studied them as if he's never seen them before. Idly, he sat in a still trance until the train jerked and he looked up. A little startled. An unnoticeable sigh crossed his lips, and forced the dry cracks to deepen. His eyes darted around, to see if anyone had seen his moment of recognition. People were just as they were.
He grabbed the lid and shoved the thing on there to cover as best as it could. Then fished out two thin, blue rubber bands that tangled together for support. With a squeezing sound, he wrapped one of them over the box, and then the other. This one snapped and flew to the floor to land at my feet. I looked up to see him chuckle to himself, then at me, like a father whose child just did something embarrassing. I bent down to pick up the elastic for him, but seeing it was broken, left it. I was astonished to see him bend down and pick up the snapped elastic himself, and tied it to the other end of his box with a clumsy, dead knot. Putting this away and zipping up his bag, he stared at his paint stained fingers and pressed his pale face to the window and closed his eyes.