The Blonde Boy

     Long blonde hair from under which, two shy but curious eyes peep. The hair falls straight, just like his figure, which looks like it's been stretched long and taunt like an elastic band. A black baseball cap with red designs sits backwards on his head, pressing the hair down onto his face. I know from his height and outfit that he's got to be at least 19, maybe 20, but his small bones and thin frame make it hard to know for certain. He's dressed in black. Black skinny jeans, black hoodie, black t-shirt. The only colour comes from his checkered kerchief tied loosely around his neck. The sleeves on his hoodie are too long and they cover his hands. Only pale fingertips peep out from under them. He uses his sweater paws constantly to move the blonde emo fringe out of his eyes.

     He moves in the background, weaving around crowds, stopping only to talk to one or two people. He walks with an ease, slightly hunched. He doesn't look insecure, but comfortable.

     I'd seen him first working behind the sound desk a few hours ago. He sat, moving the dials, a determined force behind his work. Now he's winding up cords on stage whilst everyone mingles in the big room. The chords go round and round his hands as he unplugs one after another, tidying up after the musicians. He doesn't look bored or frustrated with his work, but determined. At ease. Content. I wonder if he ever had any desire to be the one up there on the stage. Or if he's happy in the back.

     He's chewing gum, but not obnoxiously. He doesn't smack it or accompany it with a cocky attitude. It seems people like that tend to chew gum. No, instead, it seems like it's providing him with something to do when he must sit still. The energy he has is obvious in the way he leaps from the stage to unhook the speakers. Then later, when he takes trips to the van, loading up the electrical equipment. The steps he takes are huge. Probably twice as large as mine. Then again, that isn't hard to do.

     He looks up at me once and a crooked polite smile makes its way to his face. It's full of youth and an easiness, unusual for someone his age. His face is clear and so very pale. But then again, it's still winter in Canada. Snow's only just left in April. He probably hasn't seen the sun in almost five months.

     A few minutes later and the room's cleared out. I leave the building and the cold wind nips at my skin. On my way home I replay the events of the evening and my mind falls on the blonde boy. I wonder at his life story. Who he was, what his family was like, what his dreams were. I'll probably never see the blonde boy again in my life, but whoever he was, may his life be grand. And may he find a hoodie that actually fits.