“As long as you never try to serve me green eggs and ham.” He sets the phone down and reaches for a long cloth, wrapping it around his two fingers. From my time with Mr. G, I know it’s a polishing cloth, and good ones can be like gold to a soldier.
“What is your stance on green ketchup?”
“Is there even such a thing?” He frowns.
“Oh ho, yes there is. Hold please! I’ll send you the link so you can read about it later.”
Another hour later,Sam rings me.
“Hi, Min.” He yawns. “I watched the video you sent me. That’s a half hour of my life I’ll never get back. Are you still sketching me?”
“Uh-huh.” I hold up my sketchbook. I’m working on trying to shade and contrast the different parts of Sam’s face.
“That handsome chap is coming along. Can I book you do one of Orpheus next?”
“If you send me a photo, sure.”
“Funnily enough, I don’t think I have one. I can describe him to you though. He’s seventeen-point-three hands tall and black.”
I face-palm. “That doesn’t help. All the cavalry horses are black.”
“Good point.” He shrugs.
“I have a better idea. What about this? The first shift you get to be in the horse box, I’ll come down and sketch you and whatever horse you’re on in person.”
His whole face lights up. “Can I convince you to use paints?”
“Sure.” I nod. “You can have free rein over whatever medium you want me to use. It’ll beyourportrait.”
“Brilliant.” He claps his hands together. “That’s all the motivation I need to push ahead tonight.”
I hold the phone closer to me. “Don’t work too hard, Sam I Am.”
“I won’t.” He fights off another yawn.
“I’ll check on you in another hour.”
“Only if you’re awake.”
We disconnect the call.
Sam had no way of knowing how true his words would be. I passed out a few minutes after that final text.
“Crap, crap, crap,”I mutter, glancing at my watch again, even though it’s too dark to read it.
Next to me, a fellow female passenger wiggles her arm to eye level. “It’s nine forty,” she says flatly.
The people of the packed train car collectively groan.
“What is taking so darn long to sort the power cut?” amale voice exclaims. “It’s been more than an hour. I could’ve pushed the train out of the tunnel faster than that. I can see the bloody station lights ahead.”
A few voices murmur their agreement.
“I should’ve taken the bus,” someone moans.
This Tube car is becoming unbearably hot. It was the tail end of the morning rush hour when I jumped on the train. We’re packed so tightly together, there is no personal space.
Lifting my chin, I see an eerie bluish glow illuminating the faces of a few people who are seated, reading e-books on their phones and other tablet-sized devices. It’s taking everything in me not to reach into my own pocket and attempt shooting off another text to Sam, Sonya, Liz, or somebody else. I’ve tried, of course, but this train happens to be in a dead spot with no reception. All I’ve managed to do is drain the battery.
