Can ponders fate: recycled or immortalized?
I'm waiting for my son in a beer garden in Clonmel, Ireland. There's nothing to do, so I pick up a Coke can from the ground and get busy drawing it. But halfway through, when I look up from my sketchbook, it's gone.
There's my can, heading off on the tray of a waitress. I jump up in pursuit. "Can I have that back?"
"What back?" she says.
"The can—could I have it back? I need it."
"Tis empty." She looks at me like I'm daft, but she extends the arm, shakes the can and drops it in my cupped hands.
I return to the table and get back to work. Let's see...slopes...measurements...shading. I glance back to the can.
Oh, no. It's gone again, this time heading into the kitchen on the tray of a busboy. I follow him and ask for it back. He didn't know, he was just doing his job.
Now I hunch over the can, glancing defensively from side to side. All the servers are looking at me like I'm the man from Mars.
This happens four times. And I just wanted to let you know how I persevered to bring you this little study.
Sometimes still lives don't stay still.
The title, first line, and last line of this post are six-word stories. Here's more info about the Six-Word-Story Challenge on GurneyJourney