November Will Remember

00| part 0

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Chapter 0

Thin brushes fly against paper, and a figure is immortalised by Damien's talented hand.

The city is blessed with three hundred and fifty eight days of sunshine, the sound of the waves crashing and the crowd of tourists that Damien has grown to be grateful for. Of course, it's not hard for him to grasp that's he's not part of the massive attraction.

Or then he's not an art school dropout, whose dream once was to be featured in the galleries of London and Tokyo. Damien is only the drawings on sale and the portraits that he's been paid to produce, the last few parts of him that are left.

But none of it matters, and certainly not to the sea of faces that examine Damien's art day by day. Just as they're a sea of faces to him, the whole market is a blur to them, a blur they don't care to dissect and examine and worry about. Why should they? It's not their problem that he can barely afford rent, or that the market as a whole is an illegal endeavour.

Except for the dancer, that is.

He doesn't know how she got there or why. She's certainly good enough to ask money for her performance and yet, she doesn't. People approach her endlessly to ask the questions they'd never ask him. He doesn't know why she has decided to show up every afternoon, and always where he can see her clearly. He only knows he's glad she's now part of the sand and the sea, that backdrop and scenery which is often his choice of subject.

He'd generally catch her at noon, and sometimes she'd do a mixture of dance and gymnastics as it fascinated the many people that passed by her. And just before twilight, when the soft glow of the sun was sinking under the horizon, she'd leave.

~

Damien turns back to his painting that he'd been working on for a few weeks, one that had been visually painted in his mind and been kept safely in the depths of his memories, for as soon as his brush had touched the canvas, his hands were in control of the painting, not his mind.

Aqua blue waters with a pearlescent purple for the sky against the orange sun with a light yellowish hue. Damien had decided to the paint the dancer that he'd been watching for sometime, only, he would paint her soulless and faceless.

The silhouette of her dancing body was prominent, and was painted of her in motion.

Yes, he was now nearly done— nearly. All he needed now, was a few compliments and one person in particular to have a glance at the painting.

He could recognise her when she walked towards him, her slender build after years of dancing, grace in each step that she took. Of course, this wasn't infatuation with the girl, rather, an observation.

She's walking right his way now, because it was before twilight— the sun had just set and it was time to leave. Her eyes can't keep off of the painting next to him, the one of her, as she appraches his stand. Curiosity is evident on her face.

Damien holds his breath, waiting for the inevitable.

"That's—", words don't leave her for a while, she doesn't look confused, only awestruck, "me."

Damien nods, unsure of what to say. He had rarely ever spoken to her, only being an occasional nod, to her saying, "hello."

She looks hesitant, and that was Damien's chance to finally see the girl in one position with no movement at all.

"I can't possibly look this good?"

"The blue waters and the purple sky, that's how it works," Damien comments.

"How much for it?"

She was intrigued by it, and of course was attracted to it by a stronger force than ego. Gratitude. Funny how some lone artist had picked up a brush and painted her while she danced.

"Just take it." Damien was ready to give it to her, right there. He wasn't about to sell a portrait of her for money. No, he'd done it out of his own will.

"No, I can't do that," she says firmly.

Damien shrugs. "Either your take it or leave it."

"I don't want to feel like I'm stealing it from you," she says, trying to persuade him.

"You perform for free every afternoon, this isn't any different."

"I'm not performing, I'm practicing," she argues softly.

"You'd be surprised then," Damien says,"at how good you are."

Damien can tell that something changes at the very moment. Her expression, and maybe even the atmosphere. Her hand, which is now shaking, slowly reaches out to the painting and holds it as firmly.

"You won't regret this," she says. Damien doesn't exactly know what she means, but he presumes that it's about the painting. He nods at her.

She leaves with so much as a goodbye and a smile, and walks to the other side of the beach, and back into the bazaars of the city. The distance and the surrounding stalls envelope her form, with his painting in her hand. And even though he has lost his masterpiece for a mere conversation with a dancer, he feels happy. It's a simple sort, the kind of happiness that is obtained easily but ever so rarely.