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By ARTSHARKS ARTHouse

He looked at me and winked. His eyes were black as olive pits, glowing with a cheekiness that I hadn’t seen in a long time. A childish, innocent cheekiness that filled my face with a smile and my heart with warmth. He held a massive wad of pink cotton candy in his hand—here we call it malli tis grias, or “old woman’s hair,” due to it’s unruliness (though stripe me if you’ve ever seen a grandmother dye her hair pink!)—and he was looking up at his grandfather with a very sly expression. Dark, curly-haired, smooth-skinned, and thin, he reminded me of a classmate I had over a decade ago. He must have been no more than twelve or so.

I pushed back my hair and pulled down my hat. I liked to watch people this way, with the felt brim low over my forehead, feeling as if I were invisible. I could see the world, but the world didn’t have to see me—unless I so chose. I didn’t mind the boy.

So I nudged my boyfriend with my knee, grinning back at the cheeky, sparkling eyes, and Gus came to attention immediately. His own lips stretched back, and his shoulders began shaking with silent laughter as the boy began hopping behind the old man, jabbing his handful of cotton candy up like a deadly bouquet of roses. He glanced over periodically at where we were sitting in the grass. Everyone likes an entertained audience.

The grandfather hadn’t realized anything. He was standing with his hands loosely clasped behind his back, legs slightly apart and with most of his weight on his right leg. He was conversing in low pleasant tones with another man half his age. The young man’s face grew redder by the minute, but his eyes never left the old man’s face. Commendable, I thought. But a few more seconds, and I might actually see him burst like a balloon. I’d never seen the sight literally, wasn’t sure I wanted to, but was fascinated nonetheless. So I kept watching.

And still the boy pirouetted and pranced behind his grandfather, jabbing desperately up at the balding head. He was probably regretting the days he’d secretly spilled his smelly breakfast milk. Calcium may have lent him the few more necessary inches.

At some point, the candy must have reached the old man’s neck, because he reached up and slapped at his nape. No flies, but his hand came away sticky. The boy bit his lip when the cotton candy was accidently knocked from his hand onto the grass. The grandfather turned around, startled and confused—or at least, he had a great mask. The other young man, almost purple in the face now, fished out a euro from his pants pocket.

“Get yourself another, lad,” he managed breathlessly as the boy resumed his prancing. “But remember not all wigs are edible, and not all hair makes wigs.” His face slowly resumed its normal color, and Gus sighed disappointedly.

“Angreek87″