All day Saturday, he sat beneath the tent, looking tidy and sharp in his black trousers and crisp white shirt, which was open at the throat.
His friend's aunt had put several of his paintings on display, and dozens of people walked and stopped by, admiring and cooing over the vibrant paintings. He sold a few to a couple local villagers by evening, earning him his monthly supply of money.
That thought made him smile.
The sun was setting, the sky rich hues of reds, oranges, yellows, and they bled into one another like paint applied to the canvas with too much water. Soft purple clouds with underlayers of bright maroon and blood red clung to the edge of the French sky.
He looked down from the sky, the chatter of the still gathered crowd music to his ears, and at the tent across the way. He scanned the group and smiled at those he came in eye contact with.
He picked up his leather bound journal and opened it to the latest entry, smiling whistfully at the page. He looked up again as he heard a soft, lilting Irish voice speaking with his friend's aunt.
Her.
His breath clogged his throat. She was so close. And this time, she wasn't a dream. He studied her as she studied his art. She was loveliness in itself up close - albeit not what he had imagined. She had deep, lustrious red hair that fell in shiny, thick waves down her back. She had eyes as green as the Irish countryside after it rained in the Spring. Her skin was pale as ivory with a rosy tint, and glowing with health. His light green eyes skimmed down her long neck, and caught sight of the topaz pendent hanging from it as she leaned forward, her winged brows narrowed in concentration as she scrutinized Reminisce. The rest of her figure was voluptuous, curvy beaneath a flowing purple satin dress, tied at the waist with a colourful scarf. Her long, graceful fingers were covered with rings of silver and turqoise.
He smiled foolishly at himself. He was scrutinizing her as if she were a piece of art work. Which she was, he thought. She made a fine picture. He then realized she was staring at him, staring at her.
He blinked.
She was turning towards him, her hair flowing over her shoulders. A small smile played about her pink lips, her Irish eyes alive in all their glory. She lifted one tapered finger to Reminisce. "Are these yours?"
Nodding, he stood, shoving his hands into his pockets in an unconcious, nervous gesture.
"They're quite lovely," she commented in that lilting, songbird voice the true Irish possessed.
"Merci." His French accent sounded misplaced.
She turned back to it, opened her mouth to ask another question, when a woman came up to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. She turned to the woman, her mouth closed.
"Come, time to head for home," the woman said.
The redhead nodded, then turned quickly back to him, pointing at Reminisce. "Is this for sale?"
"Oui, it is."
"How much?"
"Ten pounds."
She smiled at him, and he noted that her smile lit up her whole face, as she lifted the scarf around her waist and revealed a small silk drawstring purse. She collected the coins and notes and handed them over the table to his hands.
"Thank you, merci beaucoup madame." He said, pocketing the money. He reached behind him for the brown paper he used to wrap his paintings in when they were sold. She caught him, shook her head, her eyes smiling. "No, thank you but don't worry about it." She waved her hand at him, picking the painting up and clutching it to her chest. "Thank you very much, the painting is exquisite."
He nodded, smiling back at her. "You're welcome, miss."
The girl's smile turned almost shy as she was pulled away from the tent by the older woman in the prim gray wool suit. He watched her go, still smiling, and then cursed himself.
He stalked back over to his chair, gently pushed the cat that has curled up on it onto the ground, then grabbed his journal and a charcoal pencil and turned to a fresh page, ignoring the evil-eyed cat at his feet. Because he didn't want to forget her face, he drew it, making bold, thick, rounded strokes. The image flew onto the paper from his imagination, and he was finished within fifteen minutes. Under the drawing, he wrote, as always, a half desire, half wish: I want to know her name.
He set the journal on his desk, and didn't touch it for four days. Every day, he sat in his study, staring out the large windows at the sea. The breeze that blew in through the open French doors smelt of sea salt, and it mixed with the ever-present scent of chicory coffee inside his apartment.
Wednesday, he awoke to the sound of rain on the roof and cheerful piano drifting up through the floorboards from downstairs.
Instead of falling back asleep, he threw his long legs over the side of the bed and stretch luxuriously, then stood up and threw on his usual outfit of a button down shirt and black slacks.
He made his way into the next room, his bare feet chilled by the cold wooden floors. He collected a large canvas, an easel, a bucket filled with tubes of oils and watercolours, turpentine, cloths, and another bucket filled with brushes. Opening the French doors all the way open with his foot, he set his art supplies up then went back inside to fill his favorite mug with coffee.
This routine was so well memorized, almost precise in its manner... And it was starting to really get on his nerves. He put some milk into his coffee, and then went back outside, looking out at the rain and the dark clouds. In the distance, sun broke through the misty clouds and shone dull lights on the low mountains and cast bright orbs of light on the ocean, and a rainbow was beginning to form. It reminded him of his short days in Ireland, the days when he couldn't settle down, the days he was more than broke but had no where to go.
Smearing paints onto a pallet (a/n: is that how you spell it?) and thickening them with a flat brush, he looked down below at the fountain amid the wet tiles, thinking of what to paint. Looking back up at the scene that he had just enjoyed, he looked down at the greens and blues he was mixing and decided that would be perfect to paint.
Walking back over to his easel, he made a smear of green and brown on the sides to signify where he would start the mountains, then mixed orange, brown, and red for the roofs and buildings. Looking up every so often, adding and mixing paints, the scent of turpentine and wet soil filling the air, and the clank of paintbrushes as he put one down after the other, using various brushes to get the right textures and shapes. The strokes were expert across the canvas; he mixed blue and green and began the sea, his green eyes intent on every move of his hand, every move of the brush.
He didn't notice it was almost evening by the time he had finished. The heavy gray rain had lightened to a slight drizzle, and droplets dripped from the tin roof connected to the gleaming wet parapet and made tiny plop noises that wouldn't have been noticeable if the atmosphere hadn't been so quiet except for the rain.
Looking at his finished work, he mixed pink and red and made his tiny signature and the title he gave the painting at the bottom: 'Reminisce by Jude Zachary'. The art seemed empty though.... An idea coming to mind, he mixed grays and picked up a tiny, slender brush. He painted among the hills, a barely noticeable couple, sitting on top of the highest mountain.
Satisfied, he took the canvas and set it against the wall just inside the door to hide. Saturday was coming quickly... perhaps he could sell some art.... And maybe... and maybe, she might appear again?
Walking inside, leaving his mess behind, he went straight into his study and grabbed a charcoal pencil and opened his journal and made a small entry: 'Painted Reminisce today, 4/17/23...' He then decided to make his wish known: 'I wish to find out who the woman in red and white was.'
Closing the journal, he set it back down on the old, scarred mahogany desk, and then moved out of the room.
(Note: That last post wasn't directed towards anybody. So if you thought it was... sorry.)
I have this new idea for a new series of writes. I read a line somewhere that gave me an idea for a short story... so here it goes. Sorry if it sucks.
Here's the first log*:
He had never known love.
He had never had the chance, since he'd never had a family, never had friends, never anyone to look up to. Having been tossed from home to home, he had never had the chance to meet anyone worth knowing. But in the end, he had given up on any thought of love.
Sure, he had watched romantic comedies and seen couples strolling happily hand-in-hand on the streets that surrounded his home; he had made friends and met their families... which gave him a sense of family, but it had never struck him. This was France, everyone was in love!
Everyone, that is, except him.
It was a startlingly bright morning, and the air smelled wet from the rain the night before. He had been in love with his home since he had moved into it weeks after his eighteenth birthday; which was about four years ago. It was a tiny apartment filled with tiny rooms on the top floor of an old, rustic-looking but well-taken care of building, that faced three other very similar buildings, causing a large square.
Now, he laid in a plush lounge chair he had bought when he finally moved in on the balcony, where he had once merely stood, and looked down at the still glistening tiles. In the middle of all those tiles was a fountain, with a siren sitting atop.
He loved it here.
Tents for shopkeepers were set up around the square, selling various foods and fruits and vegetables and coffee beans; others clothes and cloth and slippers. People were flooding in down below, as they did every Saturday.
Inside, the tiny rooms which had once been empty, were now cluttered and filled with his paintings, drawings, and stacks of papers that were filled with his stories.
Looking straight ahead, his green eyes saw the ocean, just beyond the colourful rooftops. He closed his eyes for a moment, the chicory coffee in the cup beside him mingled with the scent of the food below invaded his senses. Knowing he would have to go to work soon, down in a tent owned by one of his friend's aunts, he let the scent take over and relaxed.
When he opened his eyes again, a bright flash of red caught his attention before he could look to the sea again.
Sitting up, he looked through the ornate metal parapet that surrounded the balcony and saw, amid the drab and dull colours of the suits and dresses the women and old ladies wore, a beautiful woman in a white and red dress. Her thick, wavy dark red hair floated around her shoulders, and he could see from where he sat that she wore blood red lipstick that matched her shoes.
He could hear his heart pounding in his ears and feel it in his chest; a complete alien feeling. Getting up, he walked inside through the tiny glass and white-washed wood French doors to the study, and grabbed his leather-bound journal and a pencil. This journal was his life, almost literally. It held his desires, his dreams, wishes, thoughts, his deepest wants and needs. And it seemed anytime he wrote what he truly wanted, it came true.
Opening it to a fresh page, he began to sketch. A voluptuous silhouette in a red and white silk dress. When he was finished, he blew the tiny lead clumps off and studied his work as he did the woman. His heart pounded painfully against his ribs as he wrote underneath it, his wish:
"Today, this woman will fall in love with me."
Satisfied, he stood up, straightened his loose black slacks that rode low on his hips over his long legs, and tucked his white button-up shirt in neatly, leaving the collar open.
Making his way down the steps toward the tent across the square, he didn't notice he passed her. He had no idea the girl turned towards him, smiling at the shiny blonde haired man with a peculiar step to his walk.
He had no idea.
So for the rest of the day, he sat and watched, wondering. But by the end of the day, after making no eye contact and having noticed she never visited his tent, he made his first realization: His journal had failed him.
But then again, he had never wished for love.
Song: Counting Crows - Colour Blind
(1. For some reason the guy in my story reminds me of Jude Law. 2. I had to rewrite this THREE times because xanga is stupid, so sorry if it sucks even worse.)
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