ephemeral stories

The Artists

In which two different sorts of artists sit down for a chat.

Eloise checked her watch once again, the little hand now on the seven. She had arrived early, but now it was about five minutes past the time that Eloise and the man she was about to meet had agreed on. She tugged at her cardigan, blowing a strand of her red hair out of her face.

The bell of the coffee shop door chimed, and Eloise looked up, but it was just a mother with her two children in tow. Maybe he wasn't going to show. Eloise sighed and pulled out her notebook. She might as well make use of the relaxed environment around her and get some more writing done for her novel.

The door chimed again, but Eloise didn't even bother glancing up. She was in her own world now, one she had created. A finger tapped on Eloise's head, and the young woman glanced up.

The young man that stood before Eloise was not exactly how she'd imagined he would look. He was an artist. That was the first thing she'd learned about him. So the image the author had conjured in her head was of a young man with glasses and paint-splattered clothing, yet she had left blanks in other aspects about him. She had gotten a few things correct. He was young, and he did have glasses. But his jeans and oversized sweater were perfectly clean. He had freckles all over his pale skin, and his smile was wide and warm. His brown hair looked sleep mussed, like he'd just gotten out of bed.

He took Eloise's hand and shook it, his smile unwavering.

"You are the author, correct?" he asked.

"Oh, uh, yes, I am. Uh, I'm Eloise," she sputtered.

"Eloise," he said, testing the name out on his tongue. "I'm Oliver. The artist."

Eloise smiled. "Nice to meet you."

"Should we get coffee?" Oliver prompted, making a move toward the line at the cash register. "I'll pay, and then we'll just sit down and chat."

"Oh, I already have a coffee." Eloise gestured to the steaming mug sitting at the table. "But a chat sounds great, as that's why we decided to meet up."

Oliver chuckled. "That's right." He excused himself to get a coffee.

Eloise had been talking with one of her closest friends one day, when she mentioned how much she wanted to meet another artist. Not necessarily an author, but someone who was immersed in an art just as much as she was. Her friend was friends with Oliver, but she wouldn't tell Eloise what his name was, or anything about him, aside from the fact that he was an artist.

Oliver came back a few minutes later, snapping Eloise out of her trance, holding his mug, along with two plates with a muffin on each.

"I didn't know which one you'd like, so I got two different kinds. I'll eat the one you don't," Oliver said. He placed the plates and his mug on the table and pulled his chair out to sit down.

"I didn't need anything else!" Eloise said, her lips curling into a smile. "But thank you."

She grabbed the plate with the cinnamon muffin, leaving the blueberry for Oliver.

Oliver frowned. "Darn, you took the better one!" Eloise couldn't help but smile, taking a bite into her muffin.

"So," Eloise started, placing the muffin back on her plate. "How did you get into art?"

Oliver sipped his coffee, his glasses fogging as a result of the steam. He closed his eyes, thinking of an answer.

"I had always enjoyed drawing, and painting. I especially liked using pastels. And in sixth grade, my art teacher encouraged me to enter one of my pieces into a competition." He trailed off. Eloise's brows furrowed, her lips pulling into a frown.

"Did you win?" she questioned, leaning forward in her chair.

"Well, no. I didn't even make it past the first round." Oliver laughed and he ran his fingers through his hair. "I guess I got really salty about that, so I used my own money for some art lessons. I entered the same competition the next year, and I still didn't win. I made it farther that time, to the third round I think?" He rolled his eyes. "It was so stupid. I entered that competition every year until the end of high school. The highest I got was fifth place. Which was incredible, looking back. But I was pretty bitter as a teen."

Eloise clasped her hands together over her mouth, hiding her smile. "You never won?" Her smile tugged more at her lips with her words. Oliver laughed again.

"No, I never won. It didn't squash my determination, though. I kept trying! I went to an art school for college, and while I was there, I wound up being invited to be a judge for the competition. The pieces sent in by the kids were incredible. It's no wonder I never won."

Eloise laughed, closing her fingers around her mug.

"Enough about me. How did you get into writing? Is any of your work published?" Oliver asked, sounding like an excited young boy. Eloise couldn't help but smile at his attitude. She leaned back in her chair, trying to find the words to tell her story of writing.

"I've always been writing. I couldn't even tell you when I started. I had imaginary friends that I would write detailed backstories about, and I would write about their life. It was always just something I did. My dad would joke that I would become the world's best selling author within a matter of days after my first published work. To which I'd laugh and laugh about, the way only kids can, you know?"

Eloise searched for understanding in Oliver's features. He nodded, his muffin held in his hand.

"I majored in English, and I took more than my fair share of creative writing classes and workshops, and I took journalism in high school." Eloise smiled, the memories rushing back to her in floods. "And are any of my works published? Yes. I have a couple of short stories published in magazines, but that's all. I haven't finished my novel yet."

Oliver grinned. Eloise finished her muffin, the plate covered in little cinnamon crumbs.

"Could I read it?"

The question caught Eloise off guard. Her eyes went wide, and she quickly shook her head.

"No, uh, I really don't like when people read my unfinished work," she stammered out. And it was the truth. She hadn't met many other authors not like that, truth be told. Then again, she hadn't met many authors, anyway.

Oliver smirked, and he cocked his head to the side. "Consider it an artist to artist trade. I'll share my works with you, if you share yours with me."

Eloise thought for a few moments. She had been curious about the artist's pieces, and how good he was. She got the image of a room covered with canvases with paint, papers with pastels.

The author smiled, reaching her arm across the table.

"It's a deal."

Inspired by a prompt in a book I bought called Write the Story at Barnes and Noble.