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ARIANA !
I FLAG DOWN THE BARTENDER with a wave of my hand, taking a seat on one of the stools at the bar. He smiles at me as he wipes his hands on a towel.
"Hi. You guys have wine, right?" I ask, praying that they do.
"Yep. White or red?" He asks, walking backward and grabbing a glass, giving it a quick wipe down.
"White, please. Thank you so much." I smile at him again before turning my attention back to my phone. I open Instagram, heading back to a specific profile.
For the last six months, I may or may not have been stalking Y/n on Instagram. I've scrolled through her thousands of posts and looked at each of them.
It might sound a little creepy, but I wanted to know more about the woman who's been dreaming of me for years.
She kept her word from that night at the gala and she has cleansed her profile of any pictures of the paintings or even any mentions of them. Now, her feed consists of her other work. Anything that isn't art are pictures of her friends, some of them featuring her.
Something I've noticed is that she doesn't like to be seen very much. Of all the paintings of me, part of her only features in one. In her thousands of pictures on Instagram, she's seen in less than a quarter of them.
It comes as a bit of a shock to me, seeing how she is a very attractive person who deserves to be the one painted on a canvas or the one behind the camera.
My glass is placed in front of me and I glance up, sending the bartender another smile. "Thank you so much," I say, reaching for the glass and taking a sip.
"Of course. Enjoy." He smiles at me and walks away again, grabbing a damp towel and wiping down the otherwise relatively empty bar counter.
I look back down to my phone as the bell rings behind me, signaling someone has just walked in. I don't look back though, my eyes being drawn to a photo on Y/n's feed where she makes a rare feature.
In the photo, she was hunched over a thick sketchbook, the pencil in her hand lightly sketching something too light to be seen. Her face was covered by her hair and her hands were covered in paint stains. My eyes catch on a tattooed eye in the middle of her hand.
It's a random photo and it has no caption, but there are thousands of likes on it. I become one of those thousands as I double-click on the photo.
Someone takes a seat on a stool a few away from me, sighing roughly. "Old-fashioned, please, and thank you," they mumble.
"No hello? No how are you? I see how it is, Michelangelo." The bartender jokes, pulling out a glass to fulfill their order. He glances at them as he begins to make their old-fashioned. "Rough day?"
