Her face beneath the glass coffee table.
A marble ornament,
a plated face.
Weigh heavy a
...
[+]
"Sir, please." The man on the phone calls me a crude name, and my jaw churns. "I'm sorry for any inconvenience. I will offer you a full refund and a discount on your next purchase." He hangs up and I let out a long, relieved breath. "I hate this," I groan to myself. After wallowing for another moment, I glance up, looking at the only thing of note in my drab office. The posters hang in the same place they always do.
The first image is a simple illustration. Clean, smooth lines form the picture of a young couple laughing as they dance. The second poster is a landscape, with a huge, twisting tree surrounded by ferns and critters. Everything is colored in deep greens, cool blues, and splashes of pink. The last piece is the one in a realistic style. It's one of mine, actually. A portrait of a man with a smirk and full curls, done in charcoal—the last real piece of art I did before...
I tilt my head a little as I gaze at the artwork, reaching out for just a moment to touch the bottom corner of the charcoal piece. Then I squeeze my fingers into a fist, and drop my hand. With another glance at the clock, I start to pack up my bag, sweeping my chargers and keys into it.
I never drive to and from work, because the commute is the only time I still feel like an artist. As I walk, I get to take in the sounds of the city: the chatter, footfalls on concrete, and jingling of shop doors opening. I get to study the shapes of the fallen autumn leaves, admiring the array of colors that they come in.
And most of all, I get to people-watch. I get to watch worn-but-affectionate mothers holding the hands of their children, middle-aged men talking into cellphones—working before they're even in the office—and best of all: couples. I saw a young couple one time who had only their pinkies linked, and it was the most endearing thing I've ever seen.
It might be masochistic for me to pay such close attention to other people's love. But I can't help myself. I smile now at an elderly man and woman walking ahead of me, bundled up against the fall chill. The man takes the woman's hand to kiss the back of it, and she laughs lightly.
"Would you like a portrait, miss?"
I startle, taken out of my people-watching daze to look over at the man who spoke. He's an older man, with dark skin and big, expressive eyes. He's sitting on a red stool, with a sketchpad balanced on his lap. Across from him is another stool.
"Um." I hesitate, brows furrowing a little bit, and he laughs.
He holds up his pad, and a charcoal pencil. "I thought that you would be a great subject for a portrait."
I glance down at my watch, even though in the back of my mind I know that I'm in no rush. I have nothing to go home to. "I don't think—" He frowns, but then flips the sketchbooks towards me, holding out both it and his pencil.
"At least take these."
"What?" I laugh and try to push his supplies away. "Look, I'm no artist."
"You are." He smiles. "You, my dear, are an artist." He motions to the supplies again, and I pause, but then snatch the pencil just to appease him. Once I'm home, I slam the door to my apartment closed, locking it behind me. I let out an anxious breath and drop my bag heavily to the ground before striding into my bedroom.
You, my dear, are an artist.
I shake my head and drop onto my bed, pulling the ponytail from out of my hair. My gaze drops to the pencil still clutched in my hands. I rolled the pencil between my fingertips.
"I haven't drawn anything since..."
Since Jack died.
I bite the inside of my cheek, staring at the pencil. Then I let out an aggravated sound, and lean over to reach underneath my bed. I feel around for a moment, before my fingers brush against the feeling of one of my old sketchbooks. I pull it out and stare at the black cover before flipping it open to a blank page. I run my palm over the textured paper, then let out a long breath and draw.
My movements start out slow. Hesitant. But then they become quick as the marks on the page start to form a familiar shape. A familiar slope of a nose, a familiar curve to a pair of lips, a familiar curl to messy hair. Familiar eyes. Tears trickle down my cheeks as I stare at the same face that's hanging up in my cubicle at work. The last face I ever drew. That last piece of art I ever made.
Jack.
I suck in a shaky, trembling breath, and tear the page out of the book. I'm about to shut the sketchbook and shove it back under my bed, but I hesitate. This is the first time I've drawn anything in over a year. And I didn't realize how much I'd missed it.
So instead I pick up the pencil. I'm about to try again, when I hear the jingling of keys unlocking the front door. I live alone. I rush to my feet, panic flooding through me. Is someone breaking into my house? What—I hear the sound of the door opening, and my gut plummets.
"Lindsey?" a male voice calls. I freeze, every muscle in my body stiffening.
No, that's not possible.
"Lin, are you home?" Moments later, he walks into my bedroom, grinning when he sees me. "Hey babe." He walks across the room, putting down his bag so that he can cup my cheeks and kiss the top of my forehead. "How was your day?"
"Jack?" I finally say in a strangled voice.
"Lindsey?" He pulls away. "What's wrong?"
"I—you—"
He takes my hands, rubbing his thumbs across my skin. "Did something happen?"
My body starts to tremble, and then a sob wrenches out of me. "I'm sorry," I say through tears. I try to blink them away, but when that doesn't work, I rub at my face hastily. "Don't w-worry about me."
"Lindsey, you're scaring me."
I shake my head and turn around, managing a watery smile. "It's really alright. I just had a hard day at work. Could you give me a minute? I'll meet you in the living room."
He nods. "I'll be waiting." Then he kisses my forehead again, and leaves me alone in my room. I sink back onto my bed. What in the world is going on?
I look down at my drawing of him that's still sitting untouched, on my comforter. I pick it up and look at the details. It just looks like a normal drawing. I flip it over, and my eyes widen. There's something written on the back.
Hastily, I read it:
You, my dear, are an artist.
I almost choke on my breath. The old man?
I know that it doesn't feel like it right now. You haven't made any art since Jack passed. And I'm so sorry about that, my dear. You lost your greatest love. But you also lost yourself. His death made it so that you lost sight of your passion.
I can't bring him back. But, I can help you find yourself again. You now have a choice. If you tear this paper up, you will go back to the present day. You will forget any of this ever happened, and you will go back to your former life.
But, if you keep the artwork intact, you will stay. You will get to be with Jack again, even if only for a little while. You will have to grieve him again, and for that, I am truly sorry. But you can choose to be with him knowing that his time is short. And you can choose to keep hold of yourself. You can keep exploring and creating.
It is your choice. Truly. But my dear, you are an artist.
My tears are back in full force now, falling onto the letter and smearing some of the words. I flip it over, staring at the drawing, and gripping the edges.
What should I do?
I peer at the page, my thoughts tumbling over themselves. Then I tug in a deep breath, and stand up. Jack's waiting.