Muse

13

My stomach twists and turns with every moment the car moves along the road, any corner we turn and every light we stop at. I rub my palms on my pants, praying the sweat doesn't stain my otherwise perfectly clean pants. I notice the buildings are architecturally beautiful, resembling the streets of France – perhaps Italy – somewhere I would picture myself waking up and flinging open the windows to be met with luscious curtains flowing through the wind where I would look out at the bustling street and sing with the birds. Not with this English weather.

The car comes to a halt in front of one of the buildings amidst the similar ones along the street. Similar colours, similar design.

I get out and thank the driver, internally cringing at the amount of money spent to just find this place. Some would argue that I should get a car, however I haven't had the need for one. An apartment, where I had a sanctuary for my soul to grow emotionally, taking time to myself, that was necessary. As well as treating Blossom like a queen, also a necessity... for
mental health... reasons?

I slowly step toward the front door, taking in my surroundings as I carried my feet across the footpath toward the front door I was so desperately dreading to knock on. All of a sudden, it was right in front of me. The tall, heavy mahogany door peered down at me and my hand that was inching closer to knock, almost as if it where growing an inch every time I took a step closer. I take a deep breath, hoping it would relax my heart rate just a bit, so that he wouldn't see me as a nervous wreck. Before I knew it my knuckles collide with the door, the knocking clearing the thoughts from my head for a split second. The silence behind the door became deafening, with every moment the door remained closed seeming like a lifetime. Enough time for me to wonder if it was normal for people to experience this nervousness or if my brain was deciding to be a drama queen.

The door swings open.

"Veronica..." Alex'a eyes widen as he steps back slightly, giving me the impression he's surprised I'm here. He is the one who invited me over, right? Surely it wasn't some silly scenario my head decided was reality. I glanced at him, wearing a grey sloppy joe and some black tracksuit pants he couldn't look more like he was just watching television. "I forgot you were coming."

"Clearly." I scoff, raising my eyebrows mockingly at his outfit of choice. "But if now's a bad time, I can call another–"

"Another Uber?" He grins down at me, standing widely in the door frame as one arm raises to rest on the wood for support. I can't help but stare at his tall build, almost completely encompassing the entire door frame. "Come on now Veronica, you're gonna pay double what you should to get another middle aged man to drive you 10 minutes away? You're that desperate to leave already?"

I stop for a second just looking up at him in confusion before a smile cracks onto my face. "At least he would know I'm coming."

He scrunches his face up. "Ew, don't be gross."

"Aren't I here for business?" I assert quickly , trying to change the topic from my obviously poor choice of words.

"Yes of course." He mockingly pretends to fix his imaginary suit up and clears his throat while he sways his arm toward the inside of his house. "After you."

•••

Not even a moment from walking up the stairs into his studio space, my eyes are struck by the vast variety of canvases of all different shapes and sizes. Some full of colour and life, some drastically dreary.

"Quite the collection." I remark, as I stand near the stairs with my arms crossed, unsure of whether to take the next step closer to them.

"Come on," Alex gestures, reaching his arm out for a second, maybe to grab my hand, before pulling it back in uncertainty. "You wouldn't know until you take a better look. Let's start from the start."

I shrug and follow him as he starts to make his way toward the smallest canvas in the room. It sits in a corner away from the rest, not on an easel or even a table. It portrayed a set of hands reaching down to a smaller set of hands – presumably a child's – through a sea of grey and reddish swirls that encompassed the rest of the canvas.

"This was my first ever painting." Alex states, staring deeply at the canvas as he folds his arms. "I'm not the best at doing hands. They're pretty hard to master. I had to trace an image for this one."

I raise an eyebrow, my impression was that he bought other artists paintings, not sold his own. I remember the other works I had seen from his binder, the ones of a similar style. "You made this?"

I look up at him, the soft afternoon sunlight hitting one side of his face as his lips turn into a small smile. He reaches down and picks up the little painting. "What, you think I'm so interested in art just because?"

"I mean, you can like it without actually practicing it." I state, a true statement but not a common one.

"Well," He sighs, holding the painting at arms length whilst manoeuvring it to see the different angles in which it can be looked at. "I'm more of a hands on kinda guy."

"It's a good way to express how you feel without actually saying it." I say, hoping I could pry some sort of meaning or symbolism out of him, what he was trying to say from this work. I hadn't usually been exposed to such paintings, with the darkness, the muddied representations, the mystery. "It's the only way I make it through some of the worst days."

"You got that right." He sighs, placing the canvas back in its little corner where it sat, undisturbed by anything around it. He looks at it for a minute, almost like he was contemplating something before he turns to me, his deep brown eyes glistening in the light that barely entered the room. He smiles. "I have this one painting you might like, actually."

His optimistic expression paired with the thought that he actually had taken some kind of interest in what I would like. It made the blood rush to my cheeks, my face suddenly as warm as the afternoon sun. I look up at him through my long eyelashes, the butterflies in my stomach violently protest as I reach my arm out gently and take hold of his elbow. "Take me to it."

He looks down at my hand for a split second before suppressing a smile and looking in the direction of the painting. "This way madam."

I look in the direction which he seemed to be looking at, whilst following along his footsteps. My eyes scan the room for mere seconds before I saw it. "Aeolian Harp, you're the one who bought it?"

"I hear it's one of your favourites." He chuckles as we halt in front of its beauty. "I just had to have it for my collection when I saw it, and the fact you said it was your favourite after I bought it was..."

"Funny?" I blankly state, in a jokingly annoyed tone. "How come you never said anything?"

"Well, I thought it would be better if I just showed you – a bit of shock factor." He states as he turns to
me, my hand slipping from the grip of his elbow. "I didn't want you to think I was some rich pompous arse."

"I already thought that before I knew about this." I raised an eyebrow and suppressed a laugh. Something was just so amusing about shutting down the egos of men.

"Charming." He beams and turns away. He can't ignore the fact that the painting is worth tens of thousands of pounds, maybe not the biggest pompous arse but he's definitely rich of some sort. Who uses that kind of money on a painting they thought just looked nice, without the intention of selling it for profit? He clears his throat, looking down at his feet which kicked the dust of the ground gently. "It reminds me of better days, mostly of when I was a kid. When there were no fucks to spare in the world."

A small smile slowly appears on my face, a genuine one this time as I reminisced my own childhood, and the days where stress and anxiety weren't constantly sitting at the back of my head for any little event that happened in my life. My mother wasn't dead, I hadn't lost a job I'd been slaving over for years, I wasn't undeniably and unequivocally alone. "You're right, it does."