sunset and alvarado.

image by author.

He gingerly lowered the sheet on the desk,
then placed a hand on it,
as if wondering if
he wanted to caress the paper.
“You write well,” he said.
It was hard to say if a response was needed.
“Starting late in life is okay,” he added.
I was 37.
The piece he was referring to was
my writing and
I thought it was total crap.
It was a short note about something
that had happened to me and
bore little if any relevance
to anything in particular.
“Sweet,” he added.
And I thought he was a writer of
great ambition and humble success,
and maybe he was after
recognition and praise —
to be told that he wrote well.
I remained silent.
I might’ve been too harsh.