The Portrait

Chapter 2: Dismissal

Tick, tock, tick, tock...

The gradual flicking of the clock's hand echoed throughout the silent café.

Tick, tock, tick, tock...

It's now five o'clock. Jeepneys were full, and noisy vendors called out for some customers—a sight unpleasing for Arnie, Minka, Shona, and Tom as they waited with brewing coffees on their shared table.

"First week is always one of my fave days. But fuck this one teacher who decided to have a class!" Arnie complained, sipping in between her cup.

"Miss Kitty?" Tom wondered.

"Yes. She's a bitch."

"Why?" Shona asked, also curious about her friend's rage.

Hot and burbling, surely it befitted Arnie's current mood, "Imagine smiling as you humiliate your student." All ears were now on her. "She roll-called us, obviously, and when she stumbled on my name—she ordered me to stand up—I obeyed—and proceeded to tell the whole class that one of my make-up looks went viral! She's a fucking snot! She had no right to snoop into my business and tell everyone about it! I wish her death."

"Calm down, Arnie." Tom laughed. Fighting through the incoming chuckles as he looked through her now red face. "Of course, someone will share it. It's all over the internet. Besides, your make-up was cool!"

"She still had no business. Fuck her, fuck her family, and fuck her subject!"

"But I love basic arts." Shona pouted. "Anyways. I might go home early. I have to research what the old fairies looked like."

"Well, I will also research the legend of Señora Candelaria," Minka interjected. "Have you seen the bitch's research? The idiot was speculating that Señora Candelaria was some descendant of the forgotten deities. I do not know what went into her head to create such fan fiction. The stupid bitch does not know anything. She had her sources from museums and dead priests—I mean, some researchers there were a joke."

"What do you expect? The moron is a walking psycho. Remember what she had done to us." Shona added. Frowning once she had heard about the bitch.

"A proud religious, she says! Yuck." Spat Arnie. "Some hoe who sucks dick."

"Size matters?" Tom jokingly interluded, making everyone burst into laughter.

Tick, tock, tick, tock...

Seven o'clock—the coast is clear. Jeepneys were no longer full. Night classes began, and many others were now back in their homes doing each of their shenanigans.

As Tom checked his watch, "Guys, I'm going home."

Everyone nodded.

"Need a ride, Minka? Ronnie might be looking for you by now."

Minka looked up at him while he settled his bag to his shoulder. "Looking? Ha! No. Ronnie is at his parent's house. Some relatives were visiting. Maybe Arnie can come with you. You have the same route, right?"

"Would you want a ride, Arnie?" Tom looked at Arnie.

"Will it be alright?"

Her friend smiled and nodded, "Let us go then."

"I will also go now," Shona announced as she rose from her seat and gathered her things.

"Wait, Shon," As she reached her arm, Minka said, "I'm coming with you. The internet at my apartment sucks. I can't contact Drake. And whichever of you stepped into a dead rat—please be out now! The smell is spreading." Pointing at Tom and Arnie.

"Okay. Bye, guys!" The younger sister then said her farewell before deserting the café.

------

Bright as the sun in the morning, the lamp sat still on the side of the table, illuminating the small clutter of finished papers and Allan's current sketch.

Succumbed to his creativity, Allan raised the volume of his music and continued to focus on his artwork.

It was coming altogether: the hair—long and black as the coal, half of the body wearing a crimson dress, but there was no face.

The faceless artwork. The portrait. A void of nothingness and mystery.

Allan stared at it for seconds. His whole headspace focused as if sucked into a wormhole. The more he eyed his creation, the more uncertain visions appeared. Absentmindedly, he grabbed his cup to sip his coffee. But when the heat burned his lips—his pondering was cut short. Allan clumsily spilled his drink onto his artwork, tainting it all over—running off the paint that colored the subject.

"Shit!" He yelped, jolting from his position as he tried to find comfort from the pain.

Once he had gulped water from his bottle, easing the burn, the lone artist then stared back at his work, noticing an image overlapping his portrait.

The coffee became an artist itself. Its splatter formed a picture of a motorcycle—or perhaps, a pareidolia of such. The distinct features were visible only to miss its hind wheel.

"A motor? Well, anyways—" Allan brushed off, ignoring the phenomena as he walked out of the room to get rags to clean the mess.