What Happens in Vienna

Prologue | Ocean Eyes and Brownie

𝖱 𝖧 𝖤 𝖠

The portrait was everything I didn't have.

I stood by the corner of the gallery, basking in the beauty on the wall. A woman with her lover holding her from behind.

She looked happy; content. The man in the painting was gorgeous and I wondered if whoever drew him, knew him. If the woman was the painter and this was her ex lover.

Or worse, a mere figment of her imagination. It would be a pity, yet reassuring, that she too was a lonely soul in a sea of loveless lovers. Maybe being lonely was better than being in the arms of another who didn't feel.

The gallery was ever dwindling of visitors. Then again, it was closing hour. It wouldn't be long before the security escorted her outside.

"You know I'm the man in the portrait," a voice with a thick, familiar accent proclaimed.

His eyes were a striking blue. They reminded her of the summer days and nights she spent by the water back home. It would've been wonderful to compare the two shades.

"No you're not," she denied. "His natural body posture isn't the same as yours. Yours is so straightened and his is more relaxed. Not to mention that his facial structure is slim and flat. Yours is filled with slopes and much sharper. So no, you're not the one in the painting. But the way you're staring at them now, you know these people. You envy the atmosphere."

He smiled and my knees buckled. He turned to the painting then met my eyes again. "You're an artist?"

I smirked, leaning closer. "No, but I have eyes."

His eyes stared into my soul. The more he studied me, I felt dry soil water. I was drowning in the depth of them. The longer I gazed into him, I considered deeper shades of blue. His eyes were an ombre of the ocean and all I had to do was paint it.

"You from around here?" He asked.

I shook my head gently, hypnotically unable to break the eye contact. "No."

My eyes picked up a tall figure standing between me and ocean eyes. I turned to him and smiled. That's when it added up. He's the man in the portrait.

"You're the one in this painting, aren't you?" I pointed to the cause of my internal cries.

The man smiled proudly. The same shaggy, earth hair. His eyes reminded me of Farasha's. Lively, joyful. Eyes that never intended to stay still.

"I am. I won the national competition with that painting." His words were prideful. But not boastful, they were humbled.

"Impressive. And the woman...?"

He smiled coyly. "Why? You wanna be my partner for a sensual portrait?"

Heat spread through my cheeks. His laughter was just like his eyes, mischievous but not malicious. Good heartened and playful.

"She's my ex girlfriend. We used to date in college."

"And she's okay with that?"

He shrugged. "Adorable if you think I care, darling. She cheated on me with a soccer player. He was an arse."

"You're British," I made a much noticeable conclusion that reddened my cheeks.

"And you're Greek," the artist announced. "This bloke is Greek as well. That's how I picked it up."

My eyes went back to ocean eyes and smiled softly. "I knew I recognized the accent."

A tall security man approached earth eyes and whispered German words that I could barely catch on. The artist took my hand in his and placed a gentle peck on my knuckles.