The frosted glass of the dome on the conservatory gave a sandpapered
finish to the reflected sunlight.
Roberto sat on the ground so that his back was against the bench, face in the shade, lower legs in rolled-up jeans getting some sun.
The grass was immaculately kept, especially for an area with public access, though currently the lawn was mostly inhabited by pigeons and gulls.
A man sat on a folding stool in front of an easel and painted.
Roberto looked at the clouds gliding over the river, the air dancing gulls, the painter.
The man wore a backpack from which he drew brushes like swords, swiped them against a paint pallete that Roberto would swear under oath was cut from the cover of a Stevie Wonder album, then dabbed paint on a canvas.
Roberto began to nod out against the old iron bench, thought better of falling asleep in the park, and left.
When Roberto returned to the park there was less sunshine, almost none, more gulls, and the backpack painter.
He leaned against a long inactive stone drinking fountain to get a better angle on what the man painted.
It looked to be waves, though the river wasn’t visible and was often mostly flat, or some abstract idea of which Roberto could not begin to guess.
Roberto watched. The man took lengthy breaks, letting his head loll back, cracking his knuckles, stretching in what could be yoga or some other physical discipline.
Gulls wheeled in the low air toward a Camaro, cawing and jostling, wings both propulsion and weapons
The occupant had dumped a partial container of fries.
The painter reached blindly for a brush and applied strokes to the canvas. He rocked a bit, forward and back.
Someone at a family reunion next to the picnic shelter got a ringer with a horseshoe.
The painter rocked forward and with a fine brush swiped serpentine lines from left to right.
For the first time, Roberto realized the painter’s only color was black.
He stood and approached, turning away at first so he would approach from the side and not startle the man from behind.
“I don’t mean to disturb…” Roberto began.
“Are you sure?” the painter said, not turning his head.
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