Pink Paint

I used to build dreams about you.'
- F. Scott Fitzgerald

I wasn't supposed to like pink. Pink was a color for girls, end of discussion.

I had always wondered why it fell into that category. Did, once upon a time, someone decide pink is for girls, and blue for boys, period? I didn't catch the thought behind it. Pink is pink, blue is blue. Why link it to genders?

In that respect I guess I had always been different than most guys. As an artist, I saw things other people didn't. I could turn the most ordinary things in something much more special. Pink just happened to be my inspiration.

Ever since I was little, pink inspired me. If you gave 5-year-old Will a yellow marker he would've drawn a pretty sun, yes, but hand that same kid a pink marker, and you'd be astonished of what that little boy could do with only that marker. But it had to be pink.

So it was no surprise that when you walked through the door of my after-school art class, my eyes widened at the sight of your bright, pink hair. Your greyish eyes connected with mine after I inhaled sharply. A too large, blue t-shirt hung loosely on your shoulders. An expectant, shy smile lit up your features when two girls approached you. We were only fifteen then. I had never experienced true love before - I didn't really care at that age - but the second I lay eyes on you and your cotton candy-like hair, the term 'love at first sight' swirled through my head. I hadn't even talked to you, and I was already smitten.

The next weeks - months even - the only thing I painted or drew, was your pink hair. Countless hours were spent drawing every little detail, from the darkening roots on top of your small head to the splits that fell right over your shoulders. I was good at drawing for a fifteen-year-old, our instructor Martha always gushed about it, but your hair. . . I never seemed to get it right, no matter how hard I tried.

It got to the point that when I closed my eyes, I pictured you. After a few weeks, you started to make an appearance in my dreams, too. You were smiling at me as you tried to stay still so I could draw you. The dreams became more detailed each passing day.

The day two weeks before my sixteenth birthday I stumbled in the classroom, an eager smile plastered on my face. I thought about the sketch I finished during World History that same day, and how it almost reached the level of perfection. I couldn't wait to throw another glance your way to check if it came close.

I waited until the clock stroke at six o'clock, indicating the start of the class. Your seat, two easels in front of me, was unoccupied. Martha sent me a knowing smile - she knew all about my infatuation - and then she shook her head as if she knew something I didn't. My eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. Maybe you were sick, I thought. After an hour of constantly shifting my gaze toward the door, the hope left in me disappeared.

You never flopped down on your seat that day, like you did every other day. You never pulled your hair up to prevent it from falling in your face while painting that day. Neither did you the rest of the week. You never showed up again. I didn't know what had happened. All I knew is that the day you left, you took my inspiration with you.

• • •

"Will! There's someone asking for some coffee art." Alexis's high-pitched voice made me look up from the table I was cleaning. If I looked close enough, I'd be able to see my reflection in it. Dirty blond hair, the strands falling messily on top of my head. Nobody knew I'd spent at least fifteen minutes to get it that way. My brown eyes stood droopy as if I hadn't gotten a proper night rest in a week. Senior year was definitely getting to me.

"Will!" Alexis shouted my name again. My shoulders tensed. Her shrill voice left my ears ringing. Alexis' pair of lips formed a thin line as I made my way behind the cash register. When I passed her, she huffed in annoyance and rolled her eyes. Fighting the urge to make a remark about her uptight attitude, I faced the client. The guy seemed a couple of years older than me. His eyes shone in amusement, mocking me.

"What can I get you?"

"Just a proper latte and a black coffee, man. My girl over there," he pointed his finger toward a dark-haired girl with a smile on her face so big I could still see it from a mile away, "she has been dying to see that killer latte art you guys offer."

I nodded passively before I turned on my heel to get to work.

I had started with latte art as an accident. On a morning my mom had asked me to pour milk in her cup, and the bored artist in me couldn't help but play around with it. The discovered talent came in handy when I needed some money. What coffee shop wasn't looking for someone who could do that nowadays?

Since I wasn't in the mood today to do anything special, I turned the milk can a couple of times to create a leaf. In less than a minute it was done. Leaves were the easiest to do - I would bet even the male client and his girlfriend would be able to do it - but the Asian girl seemed over the moon with it when her boyfriend showed it to her.

I watched the girlfriend's reaction closely. Even though I realized her cup of coffee, and especially the art on it, wasn't one of my best works, a warm hum still spread itself through my body as the girl gushed about it, never taking her eyes off the cup. My lips twitched at the side.

All of a sudden a waving hand appeared in my eye vision. Startled, I turned my head to the culprit. I had to lower my head a bit to make eye contact with the person. Yet, my eyes didn't look the slightest bit interested in the person's eyes. Her hair. Her bright, pink hair. That was a lot more interesting.

My mind went black. Unwillingly I took a step back as I eyed the girl in front of me. Silence fell over both of us. I tried to decipher what was happening, but I couldn't. My brain stopped working minutes before. I wanted to say things, there were so many things I wanted to say, but my mouth just hung agape. Where had she been?

It had been two years since I had last seen her. The same grey eyes I used to dream about now looked up at me, again. Her body had grown a lot curvier since I'd last seen her, and her hair had grown longer. Still, the pink color was there. The inspiring color that was ripped from me without an explanation was still there.

Then, out of nowhere, a face-splitting smile appeared on my features. She was here.

"Hi," I spoke, my voice hoarse as I did so.

It had been two years ago since I had last seen her heartwarming smile, so when the pink-haired beauty grinned back at me, I could officially die a happy man.

Finally, I had my inspiration back. This time I wasn't going to let her escape so easily.