TIME AFTER TIME

duodecim.

TWELVE: 

"The Artists."

SALEM.

I didn't realize how much I needed to paint until I did. 

My new studio came at the perfect time. I moved in my supplies the same morning I stretched new canvas, eager to get my hands messy. It only took three trips from the lobby where Bree had dropped me off to the third floor, where my shared space was. When I unlocked the studio, I was expecting to meet with my studio mate but was greeted with an empty side for me and the other side full of someone's personality. Sketches peppered the wall, and some canvases and prints littered the desk. I noticed a series of photographs printed, and some hung with tape, others by frame. So, a photographer, then. A green couch was pushed to the middle of the room, facing the stranger's side. I ignored my curiosity, which beckoned me to snoop and learn more about my studio mate's life because the urge to paint was stronger. 

So now I stood in my oversized, paint-splattered t-shirt, eyeing my painting from across the room. With more distance, I brought more perspective, even if I had crossed the imaginary line into the stranger's territory. The photographer I knew nothing about. When I went to retrieve my keys this morning, no one greeted me in the lobby, just a sign someone would "BRB IN FIVE" and that my key was under the mouse pad, as instructed by the email I received earlier this week. I knew nothing about my artistic neighbor. 

As I looked away from the painting, my eyes went to the large canvases propped against the wall under a sheet. One peek wouldn't hurt--

The studio door opened abruptly, along with a confused mutter. I realized as they walked into the room with their back to me I had already seen this play out. This particular vision, a boy with strong muscles who scratched his curly hair, had been gifted to me months ago. It couldn't be...

"Blake," my voice betrays me by sounding grateful. 

He whirls to stare at me, confusion fading to excitement, and then, seeing where I stood in the room, horror, which he tried to quickly cover up. "Salem," he sounded nervous. "What are you doing here? On my side... in my studio..."

"I needed some perspective," I inform him as my bare feet carry me back to my side, keeping a generous five feet between us. "And it's our studio now."

He sets his keys on his desk once he quickly goes to his side. I just as quickly slipped on the jeans I had stripped out of earlier when I thought I would be painting in solitude. "Looks like we're stuck with one another." He laughs as if he doesn't find his statement funny.

"Don't sound so excited about sharing a space," I huff at him.

"Says the girl who walked out on the first date." Now I'm glaring at him like I did that night in the restaurant. A similar rage settles on me. But this time, I don't fuel the fire. Instead, I turn my back to him and take my dirty paint water to the sink to replace it. I ignore all the comments I think to spit in his face. When I return to my canvas with fresh water, I feel his eyes on me. After a deep breath, he says, "That was rude."

"It was," I agree, still not looking at him. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it." I hear the genuine regret in his voice, which pauses my movements from mixing an angry red. I glance over my shoulder to see him leaning into the back of the couch. His shoulders forward, hands gripping the back tightly. One minute, I see him, and the next, a vision takes my breath away.