SIX
Elena’s doing a little dance in the middle of the shop, and it’s giving me a headache, but also warming me up inside so I feel like the Grinch whose heart has expanded three times too fast with it getting crushed against my ribs.
“What do you call that? Dancing?!” I call as I finish up one of my drawings, one of the sketches I’ve been working on for one of Russia’s friends, Alex—the one who came to me explaining about his son and the health issues he was born with.
It was a bad day yesterday, the kind that constantly made my throat close up on the verge of tears, thinking about the love the guy has for his kid, where he told me, a stranger (easier than it should be most of the time) about his hopes and fears, wanting to hold on to his son while getting a tattoo of his tiny feet.
**
