Paint Strokes
1/1
Rosa let out the quietest of sighs as she wandered through the small studio, hating that she felt so envious. Penelope had worked hard to afford this place. Her paintings were hung everywhere, up high, to keep her from spilling something on them while working on another masterpiece.
With gentle hands Rosa allowed her fingertips to brush against the cool metal of her best friend’s easel, looking at the perfect rendition of her own face. She looked beautiful in this painting, the soft lines and creamy skin. She looked alive.
Rosa’s mind drifted to her own paintings, all hesitating brush strokes and muddy colors. She thought of the dedication she’d put into her craft, years upon years of classes and practice, only to create haphazard canvases better left in a middle school art show. Penelope’s skill had come naturally and it was beautiful to watch her work, arms moving in sharp strokes one moment and languidly the next, all a dance no one but her knew the choreography to. In the end, everyone would just watch in astounded silence at how such irregular movements could create something so very real.
It was one of these days, the ones where she’d visit this studio because she couldn’t keep denying Penelope, that she’d feel despair settle in her very soul. Her heart seemed to drop, break, at the knowledge that no matter how much she adored painting, she would never be this good, would never be worth much of anything. The only consolation would be the warm, spiced flavor of the tea Penelope was currently making, the whipped cream making everything gentler, less important.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Penelope asked with a fond smile at the room, at her true home.
“Completely.” Rosa nodded, gratefully accepting the tea Penelope offered. “You’re an amazing artist.”
“It takes one to know one,” is all Penelope said, resting a hand in Rosa’s soft curls with a smile.
With gentle hands Rosa allowed her fingertips to brush against the cool metal of her best friend’s easel, looking at the perfect rendition of her own face. She looked beautiful in this painting, the soft lines and creamy skin. She looked alive.
Rosa’s mind drifted to her own paintings, all hesitating brush strokes and muddy colors. She thought of the dedication she’d put into her craft, years upon years of classes and practice, only to create haphazard canvases better left in a middle school art show. Penelope’s skill had come naturally and it was beautiful to watch her work, arms moving in sharp strokes one moment and languidly the next, all a dance no one but her knew the choreography to. In the end, everyone would just watch in astounded silence at how such irregular movements could create something so very real.
It was one of these days, the ones where she’d visit this studio because she couldn’t keep denying Penelope, that she’d feel despair settle in her very soul. Her heart seemed to drop, break, at the knowledge that no matter how much she adored painting, she would never be this good, would never be worth much of anything. The only consolation would be the warm, spiced flavor of the tea Penelope was currently making, the whipped cream making everything gentler, less important.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Penelope asked with a fond smile at the room, at her true home.
“Completely.” Rosa nodded, gratefully accepting the tea Penelope offered. “You’re an amazing artist.”
“It takes one to know one,” is all Penelope said, resting a hand in Rosa’s soft curls with a smile.