Collections

"Can I sit here?" he asks. The table is empty except for me and my book; I came to the Seattle waterfront entirely on accident, on a whim, as an inconvenient deviation from my set plans.
I'm here, why not?
I find a table overlooking the setting sun and Seattle sublimity. This is what the city is. This is its most intimate secret, known by millions, the cloud of red, blue, and yellow draping the Olympic mountains and obscuring anything within range. It's all I can see. The sun and its Pacific refractions on the tranquil faces of anyone who approaches the guardrail -- and thank God it's there. I'd have been pulled and brought deeper into its passionate solar kiss. I'd never have been kissed like that before.

"Can I sit here?" I pull away from the reflections on the water and the smooth gold gradients on the sides of buildings to look up.
"Sure."
He's a frail boy of around 20, speech thick with a foreign accent -- English.
"Where are you from?" I ask him, precariously [my mother had told me not to talk to strangers but the atmosphere of intriguing unfamiliarity is too much].
"England," he tells me, "Just arrived the other day." He says it simply; much like England wasn't across the ocean, but merely a street away.
"Oh yeah? What brings you to Seattle?" I make small talk, like I'm accustomed to from years of superficiality and surface suburbanism.
He smiles and chuckles to himself, a knowing, peaceful curve on his face, also veiled in violent red-orange.
He pauses and looks away.
"Well... this." -- A nod towards the waterfront.

And I understood; it was what had brought me here too, whether I knew it or not.
I smile too and we watch the mountaintops turn darker and the sun fall lower. We discuss music, as any small conversation starts and continues.
The Shins.
The Shook Ones.
The Blue Scholars and Gym Class Heroes -- Papercut Chronicles -- the gritty, raw beauty of underground independence from radio.
"It's the lyrics that make it," I say, and he nods emphatically, knowingly.
"For me too."

Every so often we would pause and watch the diminishment of the sun. We wouldn't say anything for a few moments, not for loss of words, but an onslaught of possibilities and adjectives that could label the moment at the table, punctuated with overstuffed bags and a burdensome understanding that it is passing too quickly.

We exchange names and shake hands. He -- Danny -- jumps onto the table and spreads his arms, stretches. The red bounces off his untidy hair, mirror-like and momentous -- if Seattle were reflected in a human being, Danny's outstretched figure and easy disposition would be the elusive white light.

He takes a picture with a camera materialized from a small pocket.
"Do you ever feel like the sun sets faster the closer it gets to the horizon? Like the Earth spins faster the more beautiful it becomes."

I nod. I know what he means.
"I don't think it spins faster. I think it's a trick of the mind; beauty is fleeting and beautiful things slip by faster. They're... elusive. The more you want to keep the moment in your eyes, your palm, your memory, the faster it passes through your eyelashes, your fingers, your neurons."

I pause for a minute and still open my eyes wider and clench my hands tighter. But it doesn't matter; Danny sighs and admits, "To try... it's all you can do to see as much beauty as you can."

He sits back down.
"How old are you, anyway?" he asks curiously.
"Nineteen in a few weeks."
He chuckles. "Hah... lucky."
"Lucky? Why? How old are you?"
"This'll be a fun game to play. How old do you think I am?"
I look at him, cock my head to the side.
"Twenty-one?"
"Nope."
"Younger? Older?"
"Older." He appears amused.
"Twenty... three?"
"Yes." The amusement turns to melancholy and for a quick moment I wonder why.
"And if I shave, I look like I'm fourteen." He grins and we laugh at the silliness of the notion; the moment is bittersweet and laughter is a welcome concept.
"So what do you want to do with your life?" I ask this broad question simply, quite childlike and naive, but he answers, "Something good," smiles, and looks at the sun, almost gone.
"That's our responsibility. I hope to leave the world a better place than I found it."

We talk about hopeful notions and idealistic fantasies; he takes off the woven hat he was wearing and ruffles his bright pink hair carelessly.

And I wonder, I question, how funny is it that an unfortunate distraction led to this unique stranger. It's funny how things work. Just that. Humorous.

The Earth spun faster and beauty grew in hues of red and the sun settled behind the mountains.

"I'm headed to Portland next, and San Francisco after that... I collect sunsets." Danny tells me, and I think, I believe it.

"Where are you headed next?" I ask, and he answers, "A little town called Lakewood, by Tacoma." He tells me of strangers' kindness in letting him sleep on their couches and we laugh at the sublime coincidence of locations and hometowns.

Eventually the sun lets go of its vibrancy and subdued grey creeps onto the horizon lethargically, and as all beautiful things, the moment and the conversation is over -- Danny has to catch a bus to Tacoma. He hugs me like an old friend and rationalizes, "Since I'll probably never see you again..."
"Don't say that. I travel a lot..."
The air thickens and we both know the acquaintance, the conversation, the universal truths and the ruffled pink hair are only refracted, analogous red rays.

As any beautiful thing, it leaves you.

It hides behind the mountain ridges and clings to surface clouds of memory, subdued colors and senses.
As with all remembrances, eventually it slips past your eyelashes and your fingers.

Can't hold on to a Seattle sunset; can't hold on to a perfect stranger.

Only thing that's left to do is collect.