invasato [h.s]

1

Elaina Basset

Milan, Italy: 2019

"Fucking bullshit!"

My words of frustration leave my mouth as I drop my paintbrush to the ground, red paint splattering on the green grass.

I rub the back of my wrist over my forehead, shutting my eyes and letting my cheeks puff as I huff in aggravation.

I can't get this stupid piece right.

I feel a presence walk up behind me and there was no questioning who it was, so I didn't react. They stand behind me.

"Frustration is the beginning of many great things."

I throw my head up to the blue sky and roll my eyes.

"For god's sake, Zayn, spare me the words of wisdom."

I hear Zayn laugh under his breath before he bends down to pick up my paintbrush, then walks in front of me, between my body and the easel.

I keep my eyes away from him but he stayed looking at me, holding my paintbrush out.

"Try again."

I shake my head as I reach out for the brush. "I should just give up."

"Elaina, you're a talented painter. You've been talking about this for weeks." Zayn tries to lecture. "Imagine your work in a museum—a museum in Paris. I'm not letting you give up, so get to it."

"I was stupid to think that my work could end up in one of France's biggest museums. I mean who do I think I am?"

"You're Elaina Basset. A soon-to-be world famous artist." Zayn keeps on urging, "Now, get a new canvas and start over."

I scoff, "Just because you're my friend doesn't mean you can spring unsolicited pep talks on me like this."

His lips curl into a smile and he steps out of my way. He was working on his own piece behind me.

"I need a snack break or something." I say, setting my brush down...more gently.

I walk through the flourishing backyard and back into our villa.

Being in Italy, I stuck out like a sore thumb. But being here brings me closer to Paris. There's a sort of contest happening, where one upcoming painter will have their work hung in the Rodin Museum.

It's a far fetched dream but Zayn was the one that encouraged me to try.

I've known Zayn for a year and a half, met him here in Milan while I was on a tour of Europe, and then ended up coming back three months ago to stay with him.

He's well off. He owns this villa by himself and lets me stay here.

I walk into the natural lit kitchen, the sun flooding the stained glass windows. I scrounge the cupboards and pantries as well as the refrigerator, trying my best to put together some sort of edible meal. I'm not a cook. I can barely make toast correctly.

And Zayn—for some reason—is against 'pre-cooked' or 'from the box' meals. He's the type of person that makes everything from scratch...and I'm not.

I chop up some strawberries, dousing some sugar over them and then grabbing a wine glass, pouring some rosé in.

My denim overalls had paint stains all over them, and my white shirt underneath got its fair share of splatters as well. I was smart enough to put my hair up, thankfully.

I sit at our little table that gave us a view out the window, biting into fresh and sweet strawberries as I try to soothe my busy mind. 

"You're meant to eat cheese with wine." Zayn speaks as he enters the kitchen, washing his hands clean of paint and patting them dry on his oversized white dress shirt.