Disclaimer: I do not own anything you recognize.
What seemed like one not so very special morning, the usually dreary park was buzzing with excitement. It had partially to do with the fact that the snow had almost melted completely, and the barren gray trees had begun to show some green, little buds forming at the very tips of their spindly branches. But the life that seemed to fill the park that morning was mostly the result of a carnival. The park radiated the brightest colors that the city had ever seen, filled with dunk tanks, greasy food, caricatures, airbrush tattoos and a merry-go-round.
A peal of shrieking, childish laughter pierced the air, which was heavy with droning organ music from the merry-go-round. Roger had grimaced, and Mark figured he was either not very fond of the laughter of children or sensitive to the pungent smell of carnival food. Mimi stood at Roger's side, her arm looped through his and her eyes wide as a child's as she took in the sights. Mark wanted to film the spectacle and he had asked Roger to tag along, but it was Mimi who had really convinced the musician to leave the loft.
"Roger, look!" Mimi's face lit up with excitement as her eyes fell upon the merry-go-round. "Do you want to go on?"
"The question is do you think they'll actually let us on," Roger said, unable to keep a smile from seizing his lips at Mimi's innocent glee. "I mean, we're not exactly child-sized."
Mimi pouted. "But look at the horses," she whined, pulled Roger in the direction of the merry-go-round. "They're so pretty… come on, they can't keep us off."
Mark videotaped as a giggling Mimi dragged the reluctant Roger into the queue of toddlers and their parents that was formed before the ride. He loved capturing these little, pure moments on camera, the moments where Mimi forgot she was a stripper and showed her inner child, the moments where Roger was actually smiling. Deciding to come back later to immortalize the image of Roger on a metal horse surrounded by drooling, screaming five-year-olds, Mark made his way to a small tent in which children were having their faces painted.
He videotaped a smiling little girl as she sat on a folding metal chair, kicking her feet anxiously as a woman painted a butterfly on her cheek. The girl turned to look at Mark, causing the paintbrush to leave a streak of blue acrossthe bridge of her nose, and she waved at the camera. Smiling and returning the wave, Mark made his way around the small line of kids and parents and moved to the next tent where caricatures were being drawn.
A couple stood before a bald man with exaggeratedly large glasses who scribbled furiously at a pad of paper, glancing up every few seconds to glance at the two and snapping at them if they moved the slightest bit. Mark zoomed in on the furrowed brow of the artist and the prominent artery in his neck before slinking over to the next tent.
At first he thought that this tent, surrounded by framed sketches of various humans of all ages, was empty. There was no line before it and the billowing material of the tent gave the illusion that the chair within was unoccupied. But as Mark ducked and entered the tent to investigate, he was surprised to find a young woman sitting there, staring boredly at a blank sheet of paper that sat on an easel. She held her face in her hands and sighed silently, giving Mark the impression that nobody had come to her to be drawn today.
Mark stood there for a moment just videotaping her, closing in on her face so he could preserve on film the tan complexion of her skin, her exotically shaped eyes, the straight mocha brown hair that framed her face and laid flat on her shoulders. There was a uniqueness to her appearance that Mark found intriguing, and she was so still that he almost forgot that she was a living, breathing human being.
She glanced up sharply, just becoming aware of his presence; behind his camera he saw her eyes alight on him and he quickly lowered the device. He felt flustered with those meticulous almond eyes on him, but before he could stutter an apology for startling her she smiled and spoke. "Are you here to have your picture drawn?" she asked almost hopefully, the eyes that Mark had perceived to be intimidating at first now creased in happiness.
Clasping his camera to his chest, with his heart pounding so hard that the sound would probably be recorded onto film, Mark shook his head unthinkingly. Almost immediately the girl's smile fell into a pout, and she muttered an 'oh' before fiddling with her pencils. Knowing at once that he had given the wrong answer, Mark sat down with defeat into the chair beside the young woman. "On second thought," he said, "I've never had anyone draw a picture of me before."
With a slight squeal of glee that was obviously unintentional, for the girl quickly brought her hand over her mouth in an almost embarrassed manner, she snatched up her pencil case. Slowly setting his camera down in the moist grass beside him, Mark watched as the girl sifted through the pencils, then selected one, turning back swiftly to face him, her hair flying about as she did so. "Usually people don't like to come to me for their pictures," she explained, leaning over a bit so she could poke her head out of the tent to peer at the abode of her caricature-drawing neighbor. "The other artists here warp the images before them, make them what the people want to see themselves as. I draw the real person. People don't always like that."
Mark nodded wordlessly, understanding completely. Sometimes people would yell at him to put his camera away because they didn't want their true, candid image caught on film. "Right. Now…" her eyes scrutinized Mark, and Mark squirmed a little, averting his gaze. "You're going to have to sit still. Can you do that?"
"Of course," Mark blurted out, though his leg was shaking nervously, and he was subconsciously tapping his foot.
The girl's grin widened as she noticed this, and Mark, following her gaze, realized it as well. "Heh," was all he could say before picking up his camera again.
Having his most precious possession back in his arms calmed him down a little, and his leg sat very still as he clutched the camera to his chest. With an awkward grin he looked back up at the girl, whose eyes had been on him the entire time. She seemed to be getting impatient but she still had on a smile. Those eyes… that smile…
"My name's Mark," Mark was coerced into saying, feeling that in order to capture the true Mark on paper the girl must know his name.
"Tuyên," the girl responded before turning back to the paper, the lithe smile still on her face.
Unusual name for an unusual girl, Mark thought as he watched her wrist slide gracefully as her hand moved the pencil over the paper. There was something enigmatic about her, or perhaps she was as nervous as he was and simply used mystery as a mask. Occasionally she'd throw a glance in his direction, but it was a brief and rare occurrence and she'd go right back to boring a hole through the paper with her eyes.
Mark took this time to observe her. She wasn't very big; quite contrarily she had a pixie-like stature, and as she sat in her chair Mark saw that her feet merely brushed over the tips of the grass, never touching the ground. She was Asian, and Mark was cultured enough to know that she was more specifically Vietnamese, judging this from both her appearance and her name. The worn coat that rested on her delicate shoulders seemed a few sizes too big for her, and she wore a necklace of seashells that were a lighter shade of brown than her hair.
Slowly Mark began to crank his camera, then gingerly he lifted it to film Tuyên once again. He wondered if the camera bothered her, but it became apparent that she was indifferent to its presence when her smile broadened. "Why do you film everything?" she asked after a while, her eyes never leaving the white paper that was soon filling up with a penciled and acurate image of Mark.
"Because there's beauty in the most unexpected moments," Mark said quietly, not to impress the girl but to tell the truth.
"That's why I draw," Tuyên said, her voice just as soft, but before she could go on there was a voice at the tent's opening that commanded their attention.
"Mark, we've been looking all over for you!" Mimi shouted, yelling not because she was angry at him but exhilarated from her day of fun. "Roger's had one too many rides on the merry-go-round, and those corn dogs didn't really help. He's hunched over a garbage can some place, so I guess now's a good time to go home."
With a snort of laughter at the image of Roger getting sick while little kids shrieked in disgust, Mark stood up, but not before looking down at Tuyên, who had ceased to draw and watched the two shyly behind the dark veil of her hair. "Well," Mark sighed. "Perhaps I can return tomorrow and you can finish that drawing?"
The girl had looked quite melancholy, but at this suggestion her face was lit up with that same smile Mark had admired all day. "Okay!" she exclaimed, lifting her chin to look up at Mark, her hair falling back out of her face. "See you tomorrow then!"
Mimi grabbed Mark's arm and pranced off, causing Mark to stumble in an ungainly fashion through the dissipating crowds. Frequently Mark glanced back over his shoulder, but by the time they had picked up a very sick Roger by the merry-go-round, the girl and her tent were out of sight. But as Mark walked home, his camera tucked under his arm as Roger moaned and groaned and Mimi merely responded with girlish giggles, he knew that though Tuyên was out of sight, she was definitely not out of mind.