I Don't Do Too Well on My Own

I Keep Telling My Self, I’m Not The Desperate Type…

Focusing on my notepad should have been a priority for me, but it was the least of my worries.

I concentrated on the painting, bright colors, strange figures. I concentrated on the painter, bright face, amazing figure.

She stood freely, brush in hand. Studying her canvas. Unaware of the stranger admiring her. Unaware that the stranger was me.

I had seen her before, and had been longing to speak to her for quite some time. But every time she would even glance my way, fear erected through my body. I shadowed my face, and turned my body away, telling myself that she wasn’t even there.

I had seen her here, this same exact place, everyday for the past few months. I had seen her in my dreams, and my thoughts ever since then. I couldn’t help but think about her, she was all I ever thought about.

I didn’t know anything about her, who she was, or where she was from. All I knew that she was here, everyday, at the same time, doing the exact same thing.

The Only Thing Worse Than Not Knowing Is To Think That I Don’t Know…

She was extremely interesting to me. Her movements and her structure, everything about her.

She continued her painting, making different marks on her canvas. By the way she was standing, I could tell she was not happy with the results of her painting.

She rested her brush on the tray of the canvas, studying her painting. She ran her fingers through her long, blonde hair, stepping back away from the canvas.

I began to feel nervous as she did this, worrying she was leaving already. It seemed she had just gotten here. I began silently praying to myself, that she would stay just a little while longer.

She turned her body quickly, facing it in my direction. I looked straight down, and picked up my pen, beginning to write on the song, that I needed so badly to finish. “Hey,” She spoke softly. “Can I ask you a question?”

My body froze when I heard her voice, it was nothing like I’d imagined it to be, proud and strong. But seeming as it was week, and soft, I was very wrong.

She looked at me for a moment, before I realized that she was asking me something. I couldn’t manage any words, so I slightly nodded.

“What do you think of this?” She asked, pointing to her canvas. I tried to breathe, and think at the same time. But it wasn’t exactly working.

I cleared my throat slightly, wanting to tell her how I felt. I just didn’t know what I felt though. I thought of her older paintings, realizing that she had definitely made better ones…but this one seemed to be my favorite. “I-” I started, “I like it. It’s really good.” I struggled to get these words out, but finally, I did.

She looked back at her painting, shrugging. “I don’t know. It’s not my best.” She smiled at me, and walked towards me. My heart began to race, as she was only about two feet away from me. “Can I sit down?” I nodded my head. “My names Reagan.”

I took a deep breath before saying, “I’m Pete.”

“Like Peter? Or just Pete?” She asked.

“Peter.” I said softly.

“Can I call you Peter?” she asked. I nodded my head, smiling at her. “Do you want to know a secret Peter?” I shrugged, dying to know. “I’ve always wondered what your name was, and what you sat over here writing.”

“Why didn’t you just ask me?” I asked confidently.

She shrugged, smiling. She reached over, grabbing the notepad from my lap. “Do you mind?” I shook my head saying, go ahead.

“I’m sleeping my way out of this one,
with anyone who will lie down.
I’ll be stuck fixated on one star,
When the world is crashing down.”

She read this aloud from my notepad. “You’re a writer?” She asked.

“You’re a painter.” I said.

She shook her head. “No, I just like to paint.”

“But you are good at it.”

“I’m no Picasso, Peter.” She said this than stood up. I copied her motions, standing beside her. She pointed at my notepad. “It’s good. Finish it for me?” I nodded my head. “I’m glad that I finally talked to you. I’m catching a plane to Brooklyn tomorrow. So, I’ll never be back here again.” She leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “Good bye, Peter.”

Before I could say anything else she gathered her supplies and walked away from me, and out of my life forever.

I Don’t Do To Well On My Own….