Two Streets Down [R.D.J]

Chapter 8: Shoulder to Sleep

     Grace's gaze was fixed on the large canvas before her. Her hair was up in a messy bun, strands of dark hair falling down the sides. Her fingers were covered in dry acrylic paint, she twirled a paintbrush between her fingers. There was a second brush sticking out her bun, she had forgotten all about it and had grabbed another, declaring it lost. Her lips were chapped due to the constant licking of her lips, she had ripped through the skin when she bit down on her bottom lip too harshly. Her bottom lip was red and swollen as result of the unconscious abuse she tended to do when trying to concentrate or think.

She poked her tongue out, licking once again the reddening flesh, tasting the metallic sense of blood. Her eyes had not left the painting,  inspecting her recent work. The last layer of glazed paint she had blended was drying. Her brush strokes were impeccable, she praised herself for that.  The painting was not finished, but she had gotten to the point of small detail, refining.

She was what her mother would call her, a hot mess. There was a plate of leftovers on the desk, of when she couldn't hold her hunger anymore. She was wearing nothing but underwear and a oversized shirt. The shirt was originally white, but over the time worn for painting purposes it was a splash of color. Anne would always complain when doing laundry, Grace is a shirt ruiner.

Grace doesn't care, she likes how pretty the shirt looks full of color. Although it is annoying when it gets on her jeans or her good shirts. Not wearing bottoms is a good idea, she has that freedom, no one is going to walk in on her painting half naked.

With a content sigh, she dropped the paintbrush into the water cup, which was a mix of red and white, creating a opaque pink, dirty water. It felt like the right time for a small break, her neck was cramping. She collected the dishes and carried them to the kitchen, leaving the painting to dry for the next layer round. She had started to work on the painting after breakfast, which consisted of toast with strawberry cream cheese spread and coffee, sometime between eight and nine in the morning.

It took her less than five minutes to wash the two plates and cups and swipe the kitchen island with a clean, wet rug. She had a burrito for lunch, she was too focused to prolong her pause to prepare food. It was not necessary, she had frozen burritos on her freezer. Accommodating the clean plates after drying them, she glanced at the clock in the wall. She cursed under her breath.

The painting would have to wait, she needed to take a shower now or she'd be late for Grandma Al's birthday party. The party was at five thirty, which meant the real thing would start at six.  She strolled to her room, pulling the dress she was planing to wear out of the closet, carefully laying it down in the bed. She grabbed clean underwear and hurried to the bathroom.

She took a quick, but refreshing, shower and dressed herself up. She brushed her hair and applied some light make-up to her face. Feeling decently finish, she went back into the studio. She couldn't leave the brushes like that, they needed to be washed. She washed the brushes with care, making sure to get rid of all the paint that could ruin her favorite brushes.

She put the now clean brushes away in the studio. She glanced at the painting, her eyes scanning every single detail. Her sharp, artist eyes found a small part that needed fixing. She could easily fix it later, but she knew that would sentence her to a whole night of remembering the small detail that needed to be fixed until she arrived home. She grabbed a small brush, swiping it against her left palm before dipping it halfway into the already mixed paint. She carefully brought the brush to the canvas, fixing the small annoying detail. Happy with the outcome, she covered paint with plastic wrap and rushed into the bathroom to wash her hands quickly. 

She headed out, grabbing her car keys and locking her apartment's door.

    The party was in full-on operation when Grace arrived. The front door was open; children were playing out front, a couple of mothers observing as they chatted with a cup on their hands. The entire family was present, family friends and some people whose names she did not remember, but faces she had seen, had attended as well. The house was full. There were teenagers sitting on the floor, next to their charging phones. A few kids playing inside. Adults sitting in chairs against the walls,  around the living room, or in the kitchen, engaged in conversation.