The Schube: A graffiti artist in Portugal sees a remarkable English woman for a fleeting instant. She has come into Lisbon on a cruise ship and is only in the city for half a day. He doesn’t speak to her; he’s far too shy. She barely sees him as she places an order in a
café – a sweet red wine – but he’s completely enamored with her beauty.

It’s not just her face, or her charcoal black hair blowing in the wind, or the way she tilts her head just so. It’s also her presence, her style, the thin beats between her breaths. He instantly decides (he can’t help but decide) to recreate this moment by spray-painting her face on everything he sees, every day, for as long as he lives.

He paints a perfect likeness of her throughout every street in the city – on windows, rooftops, tree trunks, canals, wire fences, docks, the ocean surface when it’s calm – working tirelessly even when sick, rarely taking a break except to sleep with her in dreams.

Thirty, forty, fifty years pass. He has been painting her face – the same young, vibrant, beautiful face he fell in love with – for half a century. Even after he gradually but completely lost his vision.

After a failed marriage and several years of uninspired dating, she has learned about his lifelong work, and has traveled to Portugal to find him and see what happens.

She knows this won’t be easy. He has never been caught and never signed his name to his graffiti. Everyone talks about him, but no one knows who he is.

Completely by chance, the two of them meet outside at a café. She’s much older now, of course, but still bears frail traces of the young woman he brought to life in his works. There are few seats open at the café, so she happens to sit at his table. Neither knows who the other is.

She starts talking with him, and within minutes they’re laughing, opening up to one another in spite of his broken English and her limited Portuguese. They drift closer, lost ships riding the same wave toward harbor.

She stamps out her cigarette in a trashcan decorated with the likeness of her 23-year-old face. The image, though worn away over time, is still remarkably beautiful.

He can feel a growing shyness, not unlike the way he felt long ago when he lost the nerve to speak with the woman who so inspired him. Today, he won’t let himself repeat that mistake.

He summons his courage and asks, “May I touch your face?”

She leans in. He runs his calloused fingers gently across her cheeks, her eyes, her lips.

“I could paint you for fifty years.”

She blushes, which he can’t see.

She asks where she might find Lisbon’s famous graffiti artist.

“You may be disappointed,” he says. “That man is very old now.”

“It’s funny you mention that,” she says. “I always picture him very young. Well, he must be here somewhere.”

Then he summons his courage again, invites her to stay for another drink. She looks at her 23-year-old face for advice.

The server approaches and asks if they’d like anything else.

She smiles and orders a sweet red wine, her grey hair blowing in the wind.