I happen to glance up at the drivers' mirror, and meet her gaze in the reflection. Is she staring at me? I contemplate contorting my face onto an angry glare, but when I notice she's now frowning, I become meek and lower my eyes to my hands. They're quite dry, and chapped from the biting wind I've spent so much time in lately. Pulling my scarf up over my mouth and nuzzling into the tattered wool, I long for somewhere I can call home. The next Travelodge the driver stops at will have to do for tonight.
I fumble blindly in my bursting rucksack, digging deep into the bottom. Just as my arm disappeares inside to the elbow, my fingers clutch the rough surface of my sketchpad, and i tug at it and yank it from the bag.
Flipping the cover open, I caress the heavy indentations of the writing on the inside cover - "Property of Sophie Cooper: Creative works 2009 to..."
I'd intended to complete this sentence once the pad was full, finishing it with the same calligraphic font I'd hand-written the rest in. That will have to wait though, as this particular sketchpad is still young, with no more than six pages filled with my detailed portraits and sketchy scenes.
Turning over a new page, I begin to sketch the person sitting in a seat a row in front of me in the opposite aisle. I can quite clearly make out their profile, without too much effort to conceal my switching between a watchful gaze and short, light strokes of the pencil.