revenge

It was the perfect day for sketching— the sky was a deep cerulean, the sun was warm, and the little çaybahçe across the street from Dolmabahçe Palace had a wide array of empty tables near its free-range fat chickens. As I was about to make my move to order some kahve from the guy in the window, a stern foreigner cut in front of me. I threw up my hands in a gesture of disbelief, then had an idea.

I could draw a revenge portrait.

Pedro was in favour of this idea, and so we selected a table uncomfortably near the rude line-cutter. Giggling, we pulled out our sketchbooks and various utensils, and set to work with a glare. It wasn't long before we were discovered by our victim, whose girlfriend was eyeing us. After attempting to dissuade us with futile stares, the line-cutter shifted his body, pointing his back at us. Several minutes later, his girlfriend boldly confronted us on her way to the bathroom.

"Did you draw any others?" She asked.
"No, only him."
"Why?"
"This is a revenge drawing— you see, he cut in line in front of us."

Inspecting our sketches, she pointed out that Pedro's portrait looked more accurate, and that mine was marked with more anger. I explained in laughter that it was an exaggeration.

"Don't show it to him!"