Probably because no one seems to want to live in the dilapidated houses that surround her ramshackle apartment building. There’s small, narrow house directly across the street. The powder blue paint on the exterior is peeling, and it’s dark inside. No one’s home.
The garden is overgrown, and that suits my desires. I duck beneath unruly foliage and push open the rusty gate. Within less than a minute, I settle into the shadows provided by the azalea and hydrangea bushes that haven’t been pruned in years.
Abigail’s window is a yellow rectangle shining through the night. At this distance, I can see her moving around her cramped living room. She’s setting up an easel.
Curiosity nips at me, an insistent bite.
My pretty prey is an artist. I’m not surprised to learn that she has a creative streak. Her purple curl and the whimsical unicorn badge I’ve noted on her work apron indicate a playful energy that defies stricter social norms. Her quirkiness makes more sense now that I see her with a paintbrush in her delicate hand.
Despite her perfectly polite demeanor, Abigail isn’t a conformist. She marches to the beat of her own drum. Maybe that’s why I’m having such a difficult time pinning her down.
Her hand moves in small, elegant strokes as she works with fluidity but precision. I can only see the back of her brunette head from this angle, but I have a clear view of her canvas.
She’s too far away for me to make out the details of her painting. For a while, I’m content to simply watch her graceful, minute movements as she works. But the longer she continues,the more I crave to know what absorbs her attention so completely.
I retrieve my phone from my pocket and open the camera in an attempt to zoom in on her art. But the lighting is too imbalanced at this distance for me to make out more than a navy-blue blur on her canvas.
I frown and tuck my phone back in my pocket.
If I could learn more about her art, I might be able to capture her attention when we make small talk at the café.
I resolve that I have to know the subject of her painting. I’ll learn Abigail’s secrets, and she will submit to me.
No one seemsto live in the powder blue house across the street from Abigail’s apartment. I took some time to peer into the darkened windows before settling into the shadows of the overgrown garden. The house is devoid of furnishings, and the peeling wallpaper inside is in even worse condition than the exterior paint.
It’s a convenient arrangement for me; I can watch her without concern about being interrupted.
After my frustration last night, I came prepared. I lean back in the rickety garden chair and lift the binoculars I purchased this afternoon.
The back of Abigail’s head appears in sharp relief, brunette waves shining in the golden light cast by her cheap standing lamps.
Her canvas is still propped up on the easel in the middle of her living room, but she’s sitting on her couch now. Some maddened urge to keep my focus on her prevents me from shifting my attention to the painting for a full minute.
But she’s on her laptop, probably browsing social media or something equally mundane. I’d much prefer to see her paint again, especially now that I’m equipped to view her art properly.
I blow out a sigh and focus on the unfinished painting instead. It’s a stunning impressionist landscape, depicting a pristine beach before an incoming storm. The sand is captured in textured strokes of pale yellow, indicating a sunny day before the encroaching tempest. At the horizon, turbulent, dark navy waves surge, so at odds with the peaceful beach.
I wonder if this is a scene she’s painting from memory, or if it’s an embellishment.
I’ve never seen a storm like it.
But then again, I’ve never really paid much attention to the natural world. I prefer to spend my time amongst people rather than pondering my surroundings in solitude. I can control people, not the weather. So, nature doesn’t interest me much. It’s just a backdrop, scenery for the psychological games that keep me amused.
But there’s something compelling about Abigail’s art. I can’t quite put my finger on why I’m still staring at the painting when I could be watching her instead.
I shake off the odd compulsion to continue studying the stormy sea and focus on her braided hair. The shade of dark purple is truly lovely against her brunette locks. I admire the way it weaves through her thick waves, how the heavy braid is loose enough to conceal most of her nape. I get the smallest glimpse of bare skin where her neck meets her shoulder, which is covered by her soft black work shirt.
She hasn’t bothered to change after finishing her shift; she’s gone straight to her laptop.
Why isn’t she painting?
I’m scowling in the darkness, and I smooth away the unbidden expression of displeasure.
I’m losing control around her, and even if no one is here to see it, my cheeks still flush with a strange heat.
I definitely don’t like the sensation, so I choose to ignore this particular newfeelingshe’s eliciting.
I’ll have her under my control soon enough.
