Finding Paris

Don't Know Why

 “Holy macaroni!” I stumbled up my bed and looked at the time. It was past ten-thirty in the morning and my painting session with Sienna starts at ten. I arrived at Sienna’s by eleven.

“Lucy, I am so sorry. I woke up late. I’ll give this session free of charge.” I was panting from running across the block with all my painting materials and easel to reach their house. I felt my sweat drip down my back. My shirt was drenched.

“No worries, Morgan. I was about to call you anyway to cancel the session. Sienna got sick over the weekends and had to rest for a while although, she’s pretty persistent to get up this morning for your painting session. You can go in and see her,” Lucy said as she handed me a bunch of banana muffins and lemonade for me and Sienna to eat.

I went over to the flowery yellow wooden door at the end of the hall. It was the only door with color. We painted this last month. I have been going here once every week, usually over the weekends, to paint with Sienna. Once, when I was contracted to paint a bulletin board by the park, she and Lucy walked past me. I was amused to see them as they wore matching dresses and both were eating chocolate ice-cream. After a while, I felt someone watching me from behind. It was little Sienna, gazing up at the red poppies splashed on the bulletin board, her ice-cream slowly melting from the heat.

”Hi there, mademoiselle! Do you like the poppies,” I asked the girl, a smile crawling up my face. I don’t usually like kids especially when they talk and turn out to be snotty and spoiled but the look of curiosity in Sienna’s face told me otherwise.

“I like my poppies yellow, Miss. I draw too. Why are you using tomato juice,” she asked, nonchalantly licking the brown glob of melted ice-cream from her small hands.

“Well then, if you want, you could borrow these sometime so you could paint yellow poppies. These, which look like juices, are called paint.” I told her about painting, paint, brushes and poppies. She listened to me intently. Lucy had to drag her away to get her home.

After all the banana muffins were eaten and only lemonade seeds were left, I bid Sienna goodbye much to her dismay. I told her I was meeting someone after lunch and had to go home early to prepare.

“Oh, Miss Morgan, you found your prince,” she said dreamily, dismay vanishing. She’s only nine years old, but she keeps pestering me about boyfriends or princes whenever we had painting sessions.

“No, Morgan. He’s just a friend.” I didn’t say anything more as it will only fuel more questions from her. As non-conformist as she is even at nine years old, she was not spared from the charm of fairytales and prince charmings, forever bewitching little girls everywhere.

We finally bid goodbye and I walked slowly home. It was already thirty minutes past twelve in the afternoon. I changed clothes and drank tea as I waited for Victor.

Riiing. I walked over the door and opened my gate.

“Are you ready,” he asked. He was wearing a blue checkered polo over a white shirt, cargo shorts and black slippers. I was wearing my Ramones shirt, acid-washed denim shorts and orange slippers.

“Yes. Where are we off to,” I asked flinching as the sunrays reached my eyes.

“Just someplace nice. Nice slippers by the way! And the Ramones shirt is not like you.” He laughed and pointed at my shirt. He’s getting good at nicely insulting me.

“It’s from a friend. And I love this shirt. It’s cotton and it doesn’t itch,” I said which only made the laughter louder. Really really good now at nicely insulting me.