I prepare myself, the pencils and paper in front of me as I remove my watch, placing it on the table by my mocha. 8:20 am on a foggy San Francisco morning, and he would be walking in the front doors in seventeen minutes exactly, as he has every morning for the past three years.

He walks in at 8:37 every day, right on the dot by my watch. He always approaches from the left of the door, the direction I suppose 'home' would be. The daily mood is set at this point, played out on his face like an expertly managed chess game. I begin to sketch the expression in the thirty to forty seconds he stands back from the counter, pretending to debate with his mind over what to order.

He orders the same every morning, almond latte, and the workers know better than to ask if he will have any different. Then he leans his back against the counter, glancing around the room, noticing me as a smile flashes across his face, then fades again. By 8:41, he is walking to his usual table, two to the front and left of me, always slightly facing me since he figured what I was doing.

I scribble madly until I have a rough view of his face on the paper around 8:45. I sit back, filling it in as he intently moves the cup between his hands, stopping now and then to take a drink. I shade his eyes, normally wondrous crystal blue orbs that hold the attentions of thousands, now holding the silent gaze of lead gray. I add light detail lines to his lips as he cocks his head to hear the song on the radio better, the smile returning for a moment as he slowly shakes his head.

A strand of hair falls from behind his ear as he looks to me again. Our eyes meet suddenly, emotion passing between us, the subject and the artist. I drop my gaze, shading his cheeks where a stubble has frown over his youthful features. He brushes the strand back to its place behind his ear as he takes another drink. Long, soft strokes fill in his hair as my time with him draws to a close all too soon.

A quarter after nine he stands from his chair, finishing his last swallow as we both check our watches. He looks at me one last time with a questioning gaze, and I nod back to him. He throws his cup away, reaching for the door again as I sign the page. At 9:18, he is outside walking away to the right, off for an early morning stroll in the sand and waves. But this, he's in a good mood. A turn back to the left meant he'd most likely be going back 'home' and back to bed, but today had started alright.

I slip the watch back on my wrist as it reads 9:20. An hour already gone and devoted to a man who wasn't much more than a name and a million emotions that I've drawn every morning. I closed my eyes, picturing that smile he had flashed at me earlier, and put pencil to paper again.

"Staying longer today?"

I glance up to the guy behind the counter as he walks closer, setting a second mocha down on the table.

"Can't help it...he smiled at me today. I have to sketch it..."

He nods, walking back to his post as another man enters, stepping up in debate. I continue to sketch, the pencil taking a mind of it's own as it glides over the paper in smooth design. The mouth gently curves, a shimmer pulls the light into his eyes. This is bliss and happiness, him smiling at me from the page and my mind as I sketch him joyously.

The new man has moved to a table, the small of chocolate drifting from his cup as he calmly blows to cool it. I glance up to take him in, stilling him in my mind. His long fingers are folded around his paper cup, steam rising from the lid. His emerald eyes are focused intently on the design, tracing it into his memory. His dusty blonde hair is a piled mess, that just-got-out-of-bed look that very few can pull off, but this one does it well.

He takes a sip, licking his lips and smiling to himself. He releases the cup, moving his hands to run his fingers through his hair, up to a stretch as he yawns deeply. Perhaps he's had a long night, and maybe one too many of his proffered drink, but his expression is one of melancholy sadness. I start on a new sheet of paper, etching his face with the other two I'd done.

His smooth skin shadowed the page as I worked, keeping my mind in the art.

"Ey mate...What are you doing?"

I look up startled, those green gems turned to me.

"I...I'm sketching...I'm sorry..."

"Don't be... I'm not mad, just you've been watching me since I came in."

He stood up, walking over as I sat the pencil and paper down. My watch sounds it's 9:35 warning, but I don't care as he sits down beside me, taking the sketches to look at them. I see his eyes start to water as a single word passes his lips.

"Darren..."

It's not bitterness I see there, but hurt and sorrow as he places the one of the happy Darren next to the saddening one of him.

"I suppose he came in this morning looking like this?"

"He only looked like that for a second, when he saw I was here. First time in over a year that I've seen him outwardly happy."

"Do you know him?"

"No...Just the emotions he's expressed while I sat here and sketched. You just get the feel for someone..."

"I know what you mean. How long have you been doing this?"

"Every morning for the past three years. There are over a thousand different sketches of him...And well, one of you now. Tell me, why do you know him?"

He looks back down at the sketches, pushing them around the table.

"We were bandmates five years ago. I came back to find him...Hoped that he'd be here, but I guess I just missed him again...I don't know if he even wants to see me...It's almost like he's trying to avoid me."

"Well, if his emotional state means anything, I think he might need you Daniel..."

He stops, lifting his gaze to me again.

"I never told you..."

"I already knew...An artist always knows..."

I stand, pushing the pencil into my pocket as I pick the one sketch of Daniel off the table. Pushing the two pictures of Darren together, I study Daniel's face closely.

"If you know what's good for you, take a right when you walk out those doors, and make sure, that this face always looks like this one for as long as he lives. He looks better, more healthy when he's happy."

I smile gently, picking up the last two sketches before walking to the door and outside. The sun is starting to peek through the fog, it's brilliant rays warming my skin. Turning to my right, I see him again, his back hunched slightly as he walks towards me, finished with his morning walk. I stop him as he nears me, surprise written on his features. I hand him the sketch of Daniel, looking back at the door again.

"He's waiting for you, Darren, just as you have been waiting for him."

I turn away, starting to head up the block as his voice calls out to me for the first time.

"Who are you?"

"Just an artist...Just an observer."

He smiles at me as I walk away, hearing the doors opening behind me once more.

"Till tomorrow, Darren...Till tomorrow..."