The Artist
Paper and Pencil
The next couple of days were just a blur to me.
Paulette, despite all the bad she said about herself, was one of the nicest people I’d ever met. All that she did for me was too much. She let me stay with her since I didn’t have a home, gave me food, helped me look for a job. I told her that she needn’t do anything more for me than to keep living. Of course, she said no, I deserved to be given her time and hospitality.
The thing is, I didn’t deserve it. At all. I was a dirty, rotten, disgusting piece of vermin. I wasn’t good enough for her then, and I still am not good enough for her now. And as much as I want to deserve her and deserve everything else that’s good for me, I know that I don’t. I can only dream of what I want. Maybe sometimes, dreaming is better.
Paulette’s apartment was wonderful. She had filled it with art. She had handcrafted her bowls out of clay, built her own tables, and sewed the sheets on her bed. The only thing she didn’t make were the appliances and one little night table in her bedroom. That, she said, was her grandmother’s, and she didn’t want to give it up.
I think her mood was lifted greatly after she met me on the bridge. There was a constant flush in her cheeks that I hadn’t seen when I’d drawn her. She smiled almost all the time.
The times when she didn’t smile were times that gave both of us sorrow. She would cry because she missed her old home in New York and when she doubted herself as an artist. I would talk her through it, and we’d always end our conversations with smiles and hugs.
But never a kiss.
There was a sort of tension that I felt between us. I knew that I wanted to be with her all the time, and I knew that she didn’t think of me as “just a friend.” When she was sad, all I wanted to do was hold her in my arms, tell her that everything was going to be alright, and kiss her till I couldn’t breathe anymore.
But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was…afraid of it, I guess. I didn’t know what the consequence of that action might be. I thought it would be bad. I thought she didn’t want that yet.
Paulette told me that I brought color back into her life. She said that she no longer saw the world in black and white. That sparked something inside me. Maybe I had brought color into her life, but I felt as if it were my duty to make her become three-dimensional.
I still drew her. I had more of a range. I used color, and I never drew her in the same position. She never acknowledged that I was drawing her, but I think she secretly knew. I wanted to draw her in a natural, almost normal state. I had a whole book of drawings full of Paulette just doing things. Making dinner, eating breakfast, washing her hands, sleeping, painting, and drinking coffee. Anytime I had my sketchbook and pencil on hand, I would just start drawing her.
That’s why I know her so well.
I have some very fond memories with Paulette. One of my favorites was in a supermarket. It may sound odd, but it’s true.
We were in the produce section. Paulette was picking out various fruits to add to her kitchen, and I was tagging along, occasionally saying, “Mmhmm,” or “Yeah,” to her comments.
We got to the cantaloupe section.
“Adrian, how do you tell if a cantaloupe is ripe?”
I wasn’t really listening at that point, I was thinking.
“Adrian?”
“Hmm?” I said breaking out of my trance. My cold blue eyes stared into her warm, golden brown ones.
“How do you know if a cantaloupe is ripe?”
“I think you have to smell it,” I answered. In truth, I really didn’t know. It was just an excuse to go back to thinking.
She turned around and picked up a cantaloupe. She put it close to her face and smelled it. I watched her every move. Her every delicate, clumsy, goofy, perfect move. She turned back to me.
“I think this one is –“
She stopped talking. She stopped talking because I kissed her. I finally kissed her. I gently put my hands on my face and kissed her. She was still holding the cantaloupe.
The kiss lasted about ten seconds. Her eyes were open with surprise. When I pulled away, she still looked surprised. I stepped back blushing. I knew that it was awkward, but something about it felt right.
Paulette smiled. She put the cantaloupe in her cart, flung her arms around my neck, and kissed me back. This time, my eyes were open with surprise. But only for a few seconds. Her kiss was a million times longer than that. Or at least that’s what I felt.
I never wanted to come up for air.
Paulette, despite all the bad she said about herself, was one of the nicest people I’d ever met. All that she did for me was too much. She let me stay with her since I didn’t have a home, gave me food, helped me look for a job. I told her that she needn’t do anything more for me than to keep living. Of course, she said no, I deserved to be given her time and hospitality.
The thing is, I didn’t deserve it. At all. I was a dirty, rotten, disgusting piece of vermin. I wasn’t good enough for her then, and I still am not good enough for her now. And as much as I want to deserve her and deserve everything else that’s good for me, I know that I don’t. I can only dream of what I want. Maybe sometimes, dreaming is better.
Paulette’s apartment was wonderful. She had filled it with art. She had handcrafted her bowls out of clay, built her own tables, and sewed the sheets on her bed. The only thing she didn’t make were the appliances and one little night table in her bedroom. That, she said, was her grandmother’s, and she didn’t want to give it up.
I think her mood was lifted greatly after she met me on the bridge. There was a constant flush in her cheeks that I hadn’t seen when I’d drawn her. She smiled almost all the time.
The times when she didn’t smile were times that gave both of us sorrow. She would cry because she missed her old home in New York and when she doubted herself as an artist. I would talk her through it, and we’d always end our conversations with smiles and hugs.
But never a kiss.
There was a sort of tension that I felt between us. I knew that I wanted to be with her all the time, and I knew that she didn’t think of me as “just a friend.” When she was sad, all I wanted to do was hold her in my arms, tell her that everything was going to be alright, and kiss her till I couldn’t breathe anymore.
But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was…afraid of it, I guess. I didn’t know what the consequence of that action might be. I thought it would be bad. I thought she didn’t want that yet.
Paulette told me that I brought color back into her life. She said that she no longer saw the world in black and white. That sparked something inside me. Maybe I had brought color into her life, but I felt as if it were my duty to make her become three-dimensional.
I still drew her. I had more of a range. I used color, and I never drew her in the same position. She never acknowledged that I was drawing her, but I think she secretly knew. I wanted to draw her in a natural, almost normal state. I had a whole book of drawings full of Paulette just doing things. Making dinner, eating breakfast, washing her hands, sleeping, painting, and drinking coffee. Anytime I had my sketchbook and pencil on hand, I would just start drawing her.
That’s why I know her so well.
I have some very fond memories with Paulette. One of my favorites was in a supermarket. It may sound odd, but it’s true.
We were in the produce section. Paulette was picking out various fruits to add to her kitchen, and I was tagging along, occasionally saying, “Mmhmm,” or “Yeah,” to her comments.
We got to the cantaloupe section.
“Adrian, how do you tell if a cantaloupe is ripe?”
I wasn’t really listening at that point, I was thinking.
“Adrian?”
“Hmm?” I said breaking out of my trance. My cold blue eyes stared into her warm, golden brown ones.
“How do you know if a cantaloupe is ripe?”
“I think you have to smell it,” I answered. In truth, I really didn’t know. It was just an excuse to go back to thinking.
She turned around and picked up a cantaloupe. She put it close to her face and smelled it. I watched her every move. Her every delicate, clumsy, goofy, perfect move. She turned back to me.
“I think this one is –“
She stopped talking. She stopped talking because I kissed her. I finally kissed her. I gently put my hands on my face and kissed her. She was still holding the cantaloupe.
The kiss lasted about ten seconds. Her eyes were open with surprise. When I pulled away, she still looked surprised. I stepped back blushing. I knew that it was awkward, but something about it felt right.
Paulette smiled. She put the cantaloupe in her cart, flung her arms around my neck, and kissed me back. This time, my eyes were open with surprise. But only for a few seconds. Her kiss was a million times longer than that. Or at least that’s what I felt.
I never wanted to come up for air.