HIS EYES began scrutinizing the area, a deep frown framing their bottomless gaze. He wandered for a little, in search, while the doors remained open.
As the train's rumbling began regaining its pace, he had no other option than to sink into the nearest seat, with a frustrated exhale. He threw his right foot onto his left knee, flung his notepad open, and clicked his gel pen on. He was ready.
The world was holding its breath — it seemed to him. He burned under the expectant stare of a spotlight. The pen nib waited, in anticipation. For its chance to finally kiss those creamy white pages and begin filling them up with ink, begin uncoiling his wild, extraordinary thoughts into the wonderful sprinkling of fireworks that were words.
The only missing piece now was the spark of inspiration. He squinted his eyes, scanning the place. Looking for something worthy of description— of lyrical decoration.
Worn, discolored leather train seats. Dusty glass windows. Common strangers' heads and faces — each one spiritless and monotonous.
Nothing to nourish his writing with, really.
On the verge of losing hope, he prepared to shut his dearest notebook.
But then, at once, his hungry eyes froze in their track. There it was.
He had found it.
His source of inspiration. His muse.
He stared at her for a couple of stock-still instants — plainly and openly — taking in as much as he could. Filling his mind up.
He was mesmerized.
So many places he'd visited that day, so many faces he'd passed by — thirstily searching for that something. And none ever came close.
The pen in his hand felt alive now, glowing — begging to be put into use as soon as possible.
He took a deep breath and—in a daze—began scribbling:
ash-blonde hair.
like sand.
soft, fine-grained sand.
bound to crumble at the merest touch
of none more than your own hand
He stopped amid his furious drafting process to look up another time — memorizing the details of her features attentively. Then, continued:
grey eyes.
— a misty grey.
like ashen clouds, that tuck away
the light from a windy autumn day.
Leaning back into his seat, he let go of a lengthy breath. With a shift of his sitting posture and a curious curve to his lips, he settled back into the hypnosis: observing that intriguing ash-blonde girl.
Her eyes were shut now, cheek resting peacefully against the glass window, headphones hanging off her delicate ears.
After a while, she fluttered them open — softly. Like a butterfly's wings. Tucking her ankles, she sat cross-legged as she reached for a . . . was it. . . a sketchbook? So it seemed. A hard-cover, sewn-bound sketchbook. It was handcrafted, he quickly noticed.
He had to tilt his head to peak at its cover. It depicted two beautifully hand-drawn roses. Pencil-drawn roses. Graphite roses.
Pencil resting loosely between her index and middle fingers, she began to sketch. Creations grew under her pencil.
Her hands were magic. A rich dark blue coated her nails. A hue so dark, anyone would've taken it for black. But not him. He had a keen eye for minor details. As a writer, he believed in their importance.
A small detail could give rise to a whole new story. Or greater even— bring about its definite end. A small detail could mean the difference between life and death for one of his characters — his poor subordinate creations. Details were everything.
There was nothing brusque, nothing abrupt about her manners; all her movements were utmostly smooth and delicate. They flowed— like warm milk with honey.
How confidently she was sketching. . . but just how softly. How confidently soft. How fiercely soft. The brutality of her softness was gradually overwhelming him.
Some inward feeling — a deep and curious sensation— was compelling him to get closer to her. He obeyed it willingly.
Boldly, he stood up, closed the small distance between them, and slid into the seat right in front of her. Just like that.
She didn't take notice at first. She was too immersed in her work, too absorbed in the meticulous process of her drawing.
It wasn't until she stepped out of her world and lifted her head up that their glances first crossed. And their eyes met.
YOU ARE READING
Graphite Roses ✓
General Fiction❝What if there's no story behind me?❞ ❝Ahh, but there's a story behind everything, Skylar Neve. Most of them are just untold.❞ © 2022 by mia.
