“Right.” I step away. “Tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow morning,” she echoes.
This time the crosswalk has a Walk sign, so I hurry across it and into the restaurant.
“Sorry, sorry,” I say to the woman up front. She hands me a plastic bag filled with take-out boxes and knotted at the top.
“It’s okay. Food can wait when there’s a pretty girl.” She winks at me.
I take the bag and hand her my credit card, grunting my agreement. I can’t make small talk right now. I keep seeing Brynn’s eyes when she was scared, and I’m trying to commit it to memory. The storm was back. Desire to paint slams into me.
It has been months since I felt this rush, this all-consuming need to be home and in my living room, paintbrush in hand.
Moments like this must be seized.
Anthony will just have to deal with his hunger for a little while longer.
* * *
Yes.
This is what I’ve been waiting months for.
Just when I thought my talent had dried up, leaving my soul desiccated, inspiration struck.
Taking a step back from my canvas, I study my work. It’s not finished, but it’s close. Close enough to make me want to run through the streets wearing these paint-spotted jeans. No shirt, no shoes, just as I am now.
Someone knocks on my front door. I answer it, knowing damn well who it’s going to be.
Anthony strides in, flashing me an irritated look. He tosses my keys at my chest. “Hey, asshat. Good thing I had a banana stashed behind the counter in the shop.”
I tuck my keys into my pocket and ignore him. Taking a step back, I point at the painting.
He walks to the canvas and stands in front of it. Anthony whistles, low and slow. “You got your mojo back.”
I stand beside him and take it in. “For an afternoon, at least.”
He steps closer, running his finger in an arc just an inch off the canvas. “You should call it Eye of the Storm.”
He’s right. I’ve painted an eye, and within the eye are waves and dark sky. The skies are shades of gray, from medium to dark, and the waves are a mix of color. Lines of yellow, light blue, and forest green run alongside the blue of her eyes.Brynn blue.
“What are you going to do with the center?” Anthony looks at me.
I go to the kitchen and grab two beers. Handing him one, I confess I have no clue yet. The idea came to me only eighty percent finished. The problem is that I don’t know what the center is. What is the iris? What is Brynn’s fear? I have an urge to paint it white, or maybe outline it in black. The painting represents Brynn’s fear, but when I picture it, I keep seeing the innocent color, the absence of dark.
Anthony points to the painting with the mouth of his bottle. “Did Brynn inspire this?”
“Yeah. That’s what her eyes look like when she’s angry.”And fearful.But I don’t want to say that. Fear seems personal.
“How do you already know what she looks like when she’s angry?”
“What does that mean?”
“Just seems to me that anger isn’t something that comes out this early. Aren’t people on their best behavior right after they meet? And even more when that person is an employee?” He shrugs. “I don’t know, man. She’s either nuts, or you hooked her.”
“She’s not a fish, dipshit.”
“Obviously, but you get my point, right?”
