The Art Shop // Zayn Malik

p r o l o g u e 

☀☀☀☀☀

       I bit my lip in concentration, as I traced a straight line across my used napkin. The stains of my red lipstick mark in it, as well as my imaginary doodles.

       I wait impatiently for my mom to come back with the boxes, she always takes long deciding which colors of paint to lay out each day. A bell sounds in the store, I jerk my attention to the door and see my mom with some paintbrushes in her mouth, a brown box in her hands. Her dark brown hair is up in a loose bun and a small smile plays on her lips.

       I stand up from the stool behind the counter where the cash machine is and rush over to her side to pick up the box from her hands. She says a thank you while putting something in her pocket and taking out her smart-phone that barely fits in her hands.

        "Lilly," she speaks, I seem taken aback from her sudden serious tone. She grabs both of my hands and smiles at me, examining my face.

         "Yes mother?" my voice is weak, she smirks.

       "I need you to watch the store, every day." she specifies and I almost throw up the steak I ate earlier.

        "What, why? You know how much I hate this store!" I whine pouting like a baby, she rolls her eyes and moves to behind the counter, grabbing her lanyard from her neck and using the key to open the box and count the money in it.

        "I'm going to an art convention hun, I'm sorry." she apologizes not meaning it, she's paying more attention to the money than to me.

          "But I have uni," I try to find a loophole to the damn proposition. No, it shouldn't be called a proposition, it is more like an obligation that I do not want to do.

          Let me explain why, well my mom owns an Art Shop. This is like those lame hispter cafe things that you come and hang and eat little stupid foods and use your nerd glasses and all that shit. Well, this is a place where you buy art supplies and you can use your own space to paint whatever you want. This is like a library, silent. Also, instead of the nerd glasses, they come with dirty aprons and overalls, with a painted face. Everything here is so boring, you can't talk or do anything. It's boring.

            Painting has never been something I like, I suck at it and I don't understand what people see in that activity that makes them do it for a living. My mom got divorced to my dad when I was sixteen and she opened this, now it's been here for four and a half years. And not one of those days has a cute boy walked in here, sure there has been one or two, but they're boring. They don't paint interesting stuff.

                   This is just plain boring.

          "You'll come watch it from three to six, Anabelle watches it before you. It's only a month or two, you'll live." she answers casually, switching the CLOSED sign to OPEN. 

           Anabelle is a girl five years older than me who works here occasionally, she's a friend of my mom since they were three. She's okay I guess.

            "Wait, two months? I don't know how to cook!" I whine again, it's so bloody hard to cook. 

          "Yes, two months. Anabelle can cook if you ask her, make some friends who know how to cook, eat takeout or something. I don't know, but this is a big opportunity. We can expand our shops over ten countries." 

             "Shit," I mumble rolling my eyes, I grab the jacket that was perfectly folded in the counter and head outside. Cold air hits me once the bell stops sounding, that bells is annoying and I hate it. Maybe if I take some minutes to process it all it'll be easier. My dark brown hair flies around my face, I take it and put it into a pony tail. I sit down in the street with my knees pushed up to my chest. 

                    It won't be that bad. It's the "that" that ruins it.

           A young man, probably the same age as me, walks across the street with a beanie in his head. He sports some baggy black pants and wears a long sleeved gray shirt, but with paint splattered across his hands. A blank canvas is on his hands and a brown dark washed bag slings by his shoulders. He stands in front of me with a small innocent smile.

          "Hello," he greets

          "Hi there." My voice is small but it comes out stronger than what I had hoped.

          "Is it opened?" he asks examining the shop's name.

           "What is?" I ask dumbfounded by his beauty.

              "The Art Shop."

________________________________________

hi there! i hope you like this story, im so excited to write it! it' dedicated to my baby @lenid12 ! hope you like it babe! love ya!

i will start this story in june:)

vote and comment. love,

-nat