You've Got a Gypsy Soul

The first time he set foot in her apartment, he felt like he had been transported to another world. The walls were covered with fabric of all different colors and patterns. Patterns are more exciting than walls, she had said when she noticed the look that had spread across his face. Her home was old and falling apart, added to the charm, and contained no furniture except a footed bathtub, I like to sit in it and think, with the only source of light being a small lamp in the corner and candles that lined every window sill.

She liked to paint, she had said when he noticed the colored marked running up and down her arms. Flowers were her favourite, from simple pictures to abstract designs, she could always tell him which flower had been her muse. Her eyes always lit up, glazing over slightly when she talked about them, like they were transporting her to a different world.

He liked to sit on the floor in front of the easel that she had situated in the middle of her living room floor, in front of the bathtub so she had somewhere to sit if she really wanted to, and watch her work. Her eyebrows would furrow together and her tongue would escape her mouth at the corner and a look of concentration took over her face. Her would study her, the way her wrist flicked when she moved her brush a certain way or how her lips pursed together when she thought she made a mistake. He always told her she was like his own personal form of art, that’s not possible, she would say, art has to be beautiful; it has to make you feel something.

“What are you working on?” he asked as he watched her, her arms moving faster than he thought a painter’s ever could. He almost laughed as he watched her face relax and her eyes turn towards him, the playful look counteracting the scowl that formed on her lips.

“I’m working, darling,” she said in a fake accent, flicking her wrist towards him, “and you can’t see until it’s done.”

He got unfolded his legs and got up, feeling her eyes on him as he crossed the room, ready to move and hide her masterpiece if he even dared to sneak a look. He turned on the kitchen facet and ran some water, making sure it was cold before grabbing a glass and filling it up.

“Done!” she yelled from the living room, making him jump and spill the water down his shirt. He sighed and rolled his eyes, walking towards her voice, ready to with words of accusation when he stopped, looking at the painting that was in front of him.

It was him, from the day that they had first spoken to each other, in the field full of flowers and grass. He looked at it, admiring all of the little details that he didn’t think she had noticed, and then turned to her, the wide smile on her face spreading to his.

“You’re my art,” he said, and she rolled her eyes, placing a hand on her hip and pinching the bridge of her nose dramatically.

“I show you this and that’s what you want to say to me?” she questioned as a small smile played on his lips, “I told you, art has to make you feel something. That’s how it works.”

He stepped forward and took her hands in his, pulling her closer until she was right up against him. He closed the gap between their lips, the kiss soft and sweet, before pulling away and looking her straight in the eye.

“I love you,” he said, slowly but full of sureness, “how about now?”