How do you draw a zebra?

Draw a zebra?” He was still on this, and was getting to it. “I used to think that if you get good enough at it, you’ll get good enough at everything–”

She cut her off. “What do you want to know?”

As it stood though, Zorro seemed to think he’d got so good at it that he didn’t want to lose it. In a way, that was true. He was starting to drift from where he wanted to be. How did someone else draw a zebra? It was impossible to put a number to it. How was anyone else to know?

“You didn’t know that I draw zebra?” He began to smile. “No! Not at all. You know I like the way the human race looks like, do you? I just don’t like it so much in the picture-on-paper way. That was never really enough for me. I used to say to you once, that I didn’t want to get lost in the big ideas of the time, that I wanted to draw the things from life that were good and funny but also realistic. When I go back to those days, there must have been people like that in my life; I have the photos all right, but I’d like to think I had them all when I was young.” He stopped to think. “If something like that ever happened to me, you would understand.” “You’d be sure,” she said. “I’d know it for sure.” “The zebra?” he asked, and she laughed. She went out the door and went back in.

After those times she thought she had been able to forget him. So when he brought her back, not remembering anything, and in between her stories at his table about how he used to see something of the world and it looked like a zebra, and they were going to ride horses and she was going to do all kinds of giraffes, and suddenly she came out of a flashback and she saw them at the zoo, and he got away from her, and it didn’t feel like he was ever going to forget who she was. And he didn’t come home. He came home, and the first thing he did was to take his shirt off, and when he said he had to take his shoes off, she went, oh, I know, it must have been cold around his ankles that time.

He had been back, with the shirt