She once again pulls the faded yellow paint brush from behind her left ear, causing several more strands of light chestnut locks to frame her face. Her perfect, gorgeous, face. Dipping the brush into the tiny container of paint, she strokes the canvas with an indescribable delicacy. The idiosyncratic olive of her eyes gleamed ever so slightly as she picked up the brush belonging to the bronze container. As she caresses the coloring to the paper, a small smile emerged onto her plump, primrose lips. How I dream about my lips meeting hers. The sounds of the busy park are long gone now, I only see her painting, as she does everyday. Her wooden easel propped up in various locations around Central Park, from the hours of one to four, every single weekday. Her hair always thrown up in a messy knot, sticking up in every direction, multiple strands descending onto her ever presently blushed cheeks. Her attire was different every day. Sun dresses or long skirts. Jeans or sweat pants. Always though, was the uncomplicated silver string, tucked into her top. Many of nights have been spent racking my mind as to what could be on the end of the silver strand. A charm? An engraving?
Nothing at all? I may never know.
As the sun rays hit her face, I get a rare glance at the light, usually invisible, freckles grazing her cheeks. They highlight her innocence; showcase her glorious heart. Ever since I was young, I have not sought out the usual girls. While most went after the preppy blonde haired cheerleader, I was in the sidelines watching the pretty red head on the chess team, or the brunette on newspaper. They had such good hearts. "Mate, you've lost your marbles" they'd joke, poking fun at my British accent that I acquired in my first ten years of life. I never minded, for it made me who I was.
A soft breeze brushes over the park, leaves fluttering off the tree above her in my direction. Her eyes followed the spring green bits of nature, and for a nanosecond she meet my eye. My heart rate accelerated involuntarily. Immediately, though she looked away. My heart slowly broke. Would she never notice me here, watching her. Day after day. What were you painting today? What caused the indescribable sorrow in your smile. What is it that you lay awake for at night. A voice floods my mind. "Take a chance, my sweet, I never did" I could almost smell the raspberry and lilac. As if it came with your voice. The voice that soothed my night mares. She would love her, I decided. Her crazy hair and bipolar wardrobe. I wonder if she liked raspberries.
A child like jingle fills the silent air. The one every young one knew by heart. The ice cream van was in the park, about twenty feet behind her. This was my chance mother, I'll take it. I held my breathe as I walked past you. I was almost disappointed when I smelled rose petals and honey. I then realized it was perfect. I was one millimeter away from seeing what was on your easel. I turned my head.
A face. A beautiful face composed of spectacular brush strokes. The face was grinning a lopsided grin. Bronze hair touching tiny ears. Her eyes met his painted ones with such love. Love for the man she was painting. She never even glanced in my direction.
~A/N~
*just a short one shot kind of thing, so this is it. Please comment what you thought xoxox
