Paint Me Love

One

Cover by divingintobooks

Paint Me Love - a short story

Something's wrong. I just can't tell what. That's always the problem.

I subconsciously put the end of the paintbrush in my mouth and stare long and hard at the canvas. Maybe it's the eyes. Yeah, it's definitely the eyes. The left one isn't right. Or the right one isn't left? I can see it now. They're both wrong. And the bridge of the nose. And the lips. And the shadow of the jaw line. And all of it. Everything's wrong.

I stare at it a little longer before biting down hard on the paintbrush in frustration. I've been working on this piece for weeks and I can't seem to get it right. Maybe I should take a break. That might help. Refresh a bit. Draw a little.

I take my brushes to the sink and bang them against the side aggressively, trying to let out my anger without actually damaging anything. After a second, I take the time to rinse them out thoroughly and return to the canvas.

The art teacher, Mrs. Marx, is standing there when I come back. She's studying the painting intensely, probably finding something to critique. I hope she can tell me how to fix it. Her criticisms are always helpful, whereas a lot of the students are just jealous of me and tell me it's fine.

I join her in her staring, and we're quiet for a minute. "Help," I finally say.

"With what?" she asks. "I think it looks great."

"Something's just ... not right." I lean in a little and examine the eyes. "It feels wrong."

She nods a little, deep in thought. "I don't know, Gabe. It'll come to you eventually." She shrugs and laughs a little. "Or it won't. That's okay, too."

"Yeah," I say, feeling pretty discouraged. But it's really not okay. This painting has been on my mind for months. Nobody knows this, but it's a picture of my mother. I want to give it to her for her birthday in a couple weeks, but it has to be perfect.

"I have to run pick up my nephew in about ten minutes," Mrs. Marx says regretfully. "Maybe if you leave this alone for a few days, it'll come to you."

I glance at the clock on the wall. 4:35. I've been here longer than I thought. "Yeah, okay. Thanks for letting me stay."

"Of course. You're always welcome here." She smiles at me and I return it, though mine is obviously sad. Deep presidential blue. Like my mother.

I begin to put my brushes away and rinse the pallet, wondering if I can somehow remake the entire thing in a few weeks. Probably not. I might just have to start something new, like a sketch, maybe. I'll sketch her. She'd like that. She always loves my art. She says it turns her melancholy days a bright dandelion yellow. The white hospital room is so bland. If I had designed it, I would have put color all over the place. Maybe then people wouldn't feel so helpless.

Someone pokes their head in the art room. "Mrs. Marx?" she calls softly.

I glance over my shoulder at her. I recognize her from one of my classes, but I can't remember her name. She's wearing a navy blue sporty-looking jacket, and I wonder what she's doing in here. She's not an art kid, and usually, those are the only people who wander in here.

"Yes?" Mrs. Marx answers from her desk, which is currently covered in third period's projects.

"I'm sorry it's late, but I was told to come talk to you about the general art class," the girl says, coming over to her. Now I can see the jacket says Lakeview High Theatre Department on the back. "I took Art 1 in eighth grade, and they told me to ask you if I could skip one and just go to two next year."