The Portrait

I survey my apartment and I decide that gray is not a good look for the cracked walls. I shall have to paint a brighter color overtop of the gray. Who paints apartment walls gray? I look closer and I notice something that I have missed. The walls are not gray. The dirt is gray, the walls are white.

This is hardly comforting. But a room is a room and in New York City this one room apartment is a bargain. I do not have much. An iron bed, a bookcase filled with my favorite novels and poems, a table-soon to be covered in junk I am sure, and of course the only important thing in the room.

My paints. The easel is new and the paints and canvases are the nicest I could afford. I know, by an artists' instinct, that a masterpiece can not be painted on wood covered newspaper. No. Only the best will do.

I walk to my easel and I slide a finger down the side. My father would be appaled at my conditions. My mother would cry. Then she would beg me to return home.
"This neighborhood is not safe! There is only one lock on your door! Surely, we can buy you a lock, a good strong one! Surely! Oh, Matthew, please come home! Harry, tell your son to come home!"
But my father would not ask. He would not demand. He would survey me with his chilly blue eyes and he would shake his head, slowly, from side to side.
"No, Marianne. I will not."

Just hearing the reply in my head stung. But my father was resolute, he was stubborn. He would shake his head and return to the car, his face a mask, free of exspression. How many times I have tried to paint his mask. Never, can I get it right.

My stomach growls, bringing me out of my thoughts. I am hungry.

The diner around the corner is a shady looking place. My upbringing can hardly allow me to even fathom entering, much less ordering food. But I am not a rich boy at Yale any longer. I am an artist. I can do this on my own,
I enter the building. Much to my surprise, it is reasonably clean. The walls are red and the table tops are a red also, pink where the sun has faded it. Each table is decorated with a yellow rose, fake of course, and the bar has yellow placemats. I choose a table that faces into a run down park and look around.
Behind the counter, watching me, is a red haired girl. She is small, probably to my shoulder and she is slender, almost skinny. The artsit in me does not have to tell me that she is pretty. The man inside knows that well enough. She is just watching me. Staring. I frown and adjust myself to look out the window, my shoulder to her. Pretty, or not, her stares make me uncomfortable.
I watch her reflection in the glass and I am surprised to see her smile. I watch her step around the counter and walk to my table. She pauses, still staring, and then she clears her throat. I turn to her.
"Yes, I'll have tea, Earl Gray is fine if you have it." I say abruptly. This red haired girl is strange. She does stare an awful lot.
Her smile changes to a look of surprised shock.
"Tea?" she asks.
"Yes, Earl Gray if you have it." I reply.
The she does the most surprising thing in the world. She laughs.

Really laughs. Head back, mouth wide and hands covering her stomach. Her hand flys to her mouth and she wipes at a invisible tear with the other. A man in the kitchen pokes his head around the order window, looking for the source of all the mirth. He shrugs and disappears.
"Tea?" she says again.
I am annoyed. "Yes, Earl Gray, if you have it."
She leans against the wall, hands on hips."Honey, you have a better chance at finding Earl Gray tea in your hat."
I am not wearing a hat.
It is my turn to stare. "Excuse me?"
She smiles and says simply, "A coffee it is!"

I am floored.

A minute later she is back and instead of leaving me with my coffee she sits down across from me and pours herself a cup.
I watch her.
She watches me.
"Can I help you?" I ask. It is rude, I know, but she is so very odd.
"Nope." she answers.
I wait for her to offer an explanation, but she merely stirs sugar into her coffee.
She looks up at me finally.
"Have you read The Portrait of Dorian Gray?" she says.
What?
"I'm sorry, what?" I ask.
She looks at me like I'm the idiot.
"It's a book, have you read it?"
I have, its actually one of my favorites.
"Yes." I say simply.
"You remind me of Dorian."she says.
I am not sure if this is a compliment so I ask again, "What?"
"In my head, I have a picture of him and he looks like you."
I shrug and look into my coffee. What a strange girl.
She reaches across the table and holds out her hand for me to shake. "I'm Erin" she says. Her eyes, her eyes are green. Not blue-ish green. But green. I want that green. I want to paint that green.
I shake her hand. "Lovely to meet you." I say.
She laughs again.
"You really are Dorian Gray aren't you?"
I shake my head and inwardly kick myself for being so aristocratic."No." I say."I am Matthew."
She grins wider.
"Alright, what else can I get you?"
I shake my head and say "Nothing, this will be fine."
She stands, draining her cup."Mmkay, you holler if you need anything."
"I won't" I say again.
She looks down at me. God her eyes are amazing. She is not smiling.
She looks straight into my eyes and then says the most amazing thing.
"Then you should leave. I'll see you later Dorian, ok?"
Then she walks away, into the kitchen, and I am alone.
"My name is Matthew." I say. It was all I could think of.