Day to Day

The Artist

The artist grabbed his notebook and pulled on his boots and coat, the plan for the day unfurling in his mind.
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The boy was sitting on a park bench, blowing warm breath over his freezing hands. He was waiting for someone, looking around every now and then. And soon, out of the light curtain of snowflakes, came a young girl, carrying two thermoses-one red and one blue-full of a steaming beverage perfect for the frosty weather. She burst into a love-struck smile as she glimpsed the boy sitting on the bench. The boy, seeing the girl hurrying towards him, jumped up to hug the girl happily. The girl set the thermoses down and grabbed his hands between her gloved ones, berating the boy for forgetting his gloves. He grinned sheepishly then leaned to give her a soft, lingering kiss. She would have blushed, if not for her already pink cheeks, courtesy of the cold.
They settled down on the bench, each holding a thermos. They were pressed against each other, searching for warmth as well as their want to be as near to the other as possible.
That was how the artist, sitting under a nearby tree, drew them, young and in love, both flushed from the cold, speaking softly and sipping their hot drinks. His long, dark strokes of ink perfectly captured their innocent happiness.
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The frail, old man sat on the small picnic blanket. He was talking to someone, facing a grave, yet there was no-one there. Occasionally, he would make a gesture, or laugh softly, his aged face appearing younger, lighter. He was talking to his wife who had died from cancer two years before. He came here every Sunday, hail or shine, always there on his blanket to give his wife an update.
He stayed there for about an hour, sometimes talking, sometimes just sitting in silence. When it was time for him to go, he picked up the fresh daisies next to him and laid them on his beloved wife's grave, his eyes shining with tears and brimming with love.
The artist sat on a wooden bench a few feet away, and did a quick sketch, in pencil, of the man as he was laying the white flowers on the clump of soil in front of the headstone. Long after the man had gone, the artist was still hunched over his art notebook, now drawing from memory, in ink.
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The day was over, and the streets of the neighbourhood were lit up by street lights and the bright, full moon. A middle-aged woman stormed out of a small apartment building, a stormy look on her face. A man about the same age followed after her, a worried, apologetic look on his face. He kept apologizing for something, but the woman ignored him. He caught up with her and stopped her. He tried to explain himself, but she interrupted him, obviously extremely upset and angry.
Soon they were yelling, both letting out a week's worth of anger, worry and sadness. When they finally stopped, they were both breathing heavily. Then, in much quieter tones, they apologized and and moved closer to each other, past arguments already a distant thought as they got lost in their love.
They wrapped their arms around each other, gazing into the other's eyes. Their eyes fluttered shut  as their lips touched in a passionate kiss.
The artist captured their moment of love, drawing them in nearly as silhouettes, the moon shining lustrously behind them.
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The artist slammed the door of his tiny apartment behind him, his notebook under his arm. He grabbed his scrapbook from its drawer and got ready to make a new addition between its pages. He ripped the drawings he had done that day out of his notebook. He worked diligently for quite a while, cutting out papers, pasting them and writing in his neatest handwriting.
The artist stood up from the hard seat and stretched the kinks in his body. He looked down at his mots recent work and smiled. The final result had turned out pretty well. The double page had the three ink drawings on it, a caption underneath each one. He had written a short summary about ink artwork as well as a paragraph about love.
The artist shut his scrapbook, quite satisfied, and put it back into its drawer. He then got ready for bed, making sure to wash all the glue and ink off his fingers, and went to sleep.
All in a day's work.