FELICITY

IV

TIMOTHY

As soon as I'm done with my lectures, I skedaddle over to my favourite spot under the tree in that quiet neighbourhood. Lectures today were terrible, I must say. Seeing Mystery Girl should fix my crap mood.

 I hope she's still there—what if she only came for a visit and is gone already?

I park my car at a distance, grab my sketchbook and pencil, and walk down to the tree. On my approach, I see a figure resting on the tree—I've never seen anyone else sit by it before. I move closer to see long brunette hair cascading down the back of a girl. Could it be her? It is! My Mystery Girl! It is as though the heavens have sent her down to me.

I take her in as I amble over. Her eyes are closed, and she's got some more bruises—she looks weak. Sleeping people should look peaceful, but she looks uneasy and distressed.

I quietly open the pages of my sketch pad until I reach a blank page. Call me insane but I feel like I need to draw her  just as I see her now, imperfectly beautiful, mysterious. . . sorrowful. I start working on her face and I make sure I get all the details of her perfect features correctly.

I have done a lot of drawings and paintings in my life but I've never felt so connected to a piece like I do this one. I feel like I can't ruin it, like it's a way to save a life. There's something about this girl in front of me, I can't quite put my finger on it, but I find myself deeply drawn to her, her face tells me that she has a story, and I am a sucker for a great story. She's beautiful and I want her beauty to transcend through this drawing. I want to draw her like the goddess she is. I draw every angle and curve meticulously.

I finish drawing. It's beautiful I think, but it is only beautiful because she is beautiful. I want to present it to her and watch her look at it.

I move a little, and a twig snaps underfoot. She shifts in discomfort and then she flutters her eyes open. They widen.

She must be startled to see me.

"Hello love," I say with an uncontrollable smile.

"Why are you here?" she asks hoarsely. She tries to get up, but winces and sinks back to the ground. I do hope she's alright. "Are you following me? Why are you here again?" she asks. I feel terrible—I don't want her to feel uneasy because of my presence. I want her to be happy to see me.

"I'm sorry," I say, letting my smile fall. "I didn't mean to frighten you." She continues looking at me, waiting for a more suitable explanation. "You looked like you could use the sleep. I didn't want to wake you, so I decided to draw you. I am not a creep I swear, " I blurt out.

As soon as I say that, her eyes shoot open. "Yo-you drew me?" She stutters in a shaky voice. I nod in response.

"May I see it please?" She grabs my arm. "Please?" she presses. "Please," her voice shakes and tears roll down her cheeks.

I pick up my sketch pad and hold it out to her. She looks at it hesitantly for a while, like she's afraid of what she might see. She gulps, and then with shaky hands she takes the sketch pad. She shuts her eyes before opening them again, and then she finally peeks at the drawing. I see another tear fall as she traces the drawing tenderly with her fingers, and then she brings her hand up to her mouth and cries some more. I sit quietly and watch her every action. I wonder why this has had such a reaction. Does she think it's terrible? Is it not a good likeness? As I watch her, I wonder what part has overwhelmed her so that she looks like she's seeing something for the very first time.