The girl looked up.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
The biker finally asked:
“You lost, kid?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“Looking for somebody?”
“Yes.”
He glanced toward the bar.
“Your dad inside?”
“No.”
The Mother stood ten feet away.
Silent.
The biker looked toward her.
She gave him a small nod.
Permission.
Or reassurance.
Maybe both.
The Little Girl tightened her grip on the sketchbook.
“I have a surprise for you.”
The biker stared.
“A surprise.”
“Yes.”
“For me?”
She nodded.
The man glanced toward the other bikers.
One shrugged.
Another grinned.
The biker pointed at his own chest.
“You sure you’ve got the right guy?”
The Little Girl studied him.
Long enough to make him uncomfortable.
“Yes.”
The biker crouched.
His knees cracked loudly.
The girl heard.
“You’re old.”
Behind him, somebody choked on a laugh.
The biker frowned.
“I changed my mind. Keep the surprise.”
The Little Girl smiled.
That helped.
The tension broke.
Her Mother stepped slightly closer.
The biker noticed.
“You her mother?”
“Yes.”
“She allowed to be talking to questionable strangers?”
The Mother smiled faintly.
“She insisted.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It usually is.”
The girl opened the sketchbook.
The biker looked down.
The first page contained unfinished drawings.
Motorcycles.
Road signs.
A dog.
A house.
A giant bearded man that looked nothing like the biker.
She flipped.
Another page.
Then another.
Finally she stopped.
The portrait filled almost the entire paper.
Pencil.
Graphite.
Some charcoal.
It showed the biker from the chest upward.
Bandana.
Long beard.
Heavy vest.
Deep lines around the eyes.
One eyebrow slightly higher.
A rough mouth softened into the beginning of a smile.
But what stunned the biker was not accuracy.
It was expression.
The drawing made him look kind.
Not polished.
Not handsome in the way magazines used the word.
Kind.
The biker stared.
His mouth opened slightly.
Closed.
The Little Girl watched anxiously.
“You don’t like it?”
The biker looked up.
“What?”
“You’re not saying anything.”
He looked down again.
Rain struck the metal awning.
Behind them, conversations had stopped.
The other bikers were looking.
The man cleared his throat.