I saw him again, the man who always carries his drawing board to the Barnes and Noble bookstore. Earlier that morning I was getting coffee from the adjacent Starbucks when I saw him having coffee with a friend. He was wearing his usual, unkempt, yet intriguing look, his drawing board right beside him among other things. As I waited for my order, I noticed that the bearded man had begun to draw, swiftly moving his fingers across the board; I wondered if he was drawing the coffee addicts in their bright red, winter attires. Later that evening, I took Shirley Jackson’s bizarre book for a quiet read at the Barnes and Noble. I found an empty couch and took my seat without hesitation. As usual, I glanced around before I began reading, trying to get a feel for where I was and who I was sitting next to. And that’s when I saw him, my favorite artist; he was reading a newspaper on a couch just two feet away. There was no sight of his board; he was only there to read that night.