Block

"That's all I could do," Deacon dropped his head in shame.

There were balls of paper covering his feet and other attempts he had made while trying to sketch me. You can tell that he hadn't drawn in some time: the shaky lines and oblong faces to the langolier-like fingers. I looked back over at him to see his head still hanging low.

"Hey, maybe I can come by after hours, and you can use me to practice until you get it right," I offered, "I'm sure it's like riding a bike, right?"

"Don't you have to work?" he asked.

"No, I don't work," I stated, "I could if I wanted to, but I don't."

His confusion shined, "H-How-"

"Buy me a drink, and I'll tell you all about it," I interrupted.

"You don't need me to buy you a drink, remember?" he joked.

"Shut up," I nudged him, "Come on, I'll buy you one."

I strolled out of the classroom, and Deacon followed. Once we reached the bar, we met the bartender, who recognized me and brought out a shot glass with my bottle of Bushmills.