Anything in Brian's (M.M's) perspective shall be thrid person for obvious reasons.
Okay, here we go:
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He watched her leave. He was well aware she was angry, as well as the fact he had overreacted. He doesn't need to apologize, does he?
The only thing that bothered him was what she said.
"I know what artists sacrifice." He told himself, closing his eyes. Upon opening them again he beheld the sea of papers on the floor. One of them was upturned, a painting glowing with color beckoned him forward, he scooped it up like it was a human life.
He looked it over tenderly. It was hard to tell exactly what the shape in the dark was. It was a soldier, army, in fact. American. He was a white shape on black canvas; his features were knifed onto him and made it look like he was damaged, wrinkled, tired, dirty. There were dots of snow moving apparently fast all about him.
He was alone. Cold. Suffering.
But he was determined to move closer down the canvas. The jaw on the soldier was clenched, his eyes gleamed with readiness. That's when Brian noticed the yellow coloring in the eyes. They were seeing gunfire. He was facing certain death.
"Damn." he cursed. Holding the painting away.
He pushed this girl away. How the hell old was she? She looked twenty or something. A young thing. She had talent though. But she wasn't ready to do any serious comissioning until she had a mentor. Until she had him. And he pushed her away.
She looked like a painting. Her hair was dark brown with mysterious glimpses of red in the folds. Her skin was like soft pearl, her lips and eyes so colorfully animated they looked painted on. Her eyes were like green moons behind long black eyelashes. Her lips were bleeding-cherry-red. Natural beauty.
"Damn." He said again. For lack of better words. He had done something bad today. He should call her. It was surprising to find a phone already in his hand. He searched among the papers on the floor and found what he was looking for, an outdated contest entry form with her information on it. He dialed the number.
******
I was calling Berkely when the beep within my cell sounded. "Hold on, Berkely, I'm getting another call." I pushed pound. "Hello?"
"Alice?"
God dammit it was him. "I'm hanging up."
"No, don't."
"I don't have to listen to you."
"No. But you do have to listen to your mentor."
I stared ahead. The sun began to hypnotize me and all of a sudden I hallucinated that he was right infront of me. I spoke more to him than the phone.
"What are you saying?" I narrowed my eyes.
"I'd like to apologize."
"For scaring me to death or being a prick? Nobody talks to me that way."
"I understand. Yes. I'm sorry about being a prick. I should've been more professional about all of this. If you agree to show me more of your paintings, and maybe get to know eachother, I'd be glad to give you advice."
"But-" I realized that there was no one infront of me, I peered down at the phone. "I didn't show you any of my paintings."
"Actually, you left some here."
I went red. I know I did because I had the sudden urge to hide my face. Oh god I hope he was joking, I can't let anyone see some of those! UGH! I'm an idiot!
He continued: "I want you to tell me more about this one painting. It's of a soldier. It really caught my eye. Maybe we can go out for coffee, we can start from there."
Was that a good idea? Maybe not. Then again, it's a step up from being thrown out onto the street in the middle of a foreign country full of drunks and robbers. I'll humor the guy.
"Okay. Yes."
"I'll pick you up, I can see you from this window."
Oh god, the redness! I looked back at the house, I didn't see him. I hid my face, "I'll be waiting."
"It's a date then." he hung up.
***
Infront of me was a cup of black coffee. Across from me, Mr. Warner looked over more and more paintings. We hadn't said a thing since the phone call.
"Did . . . did actually seeing my paintings change your mind about mentoring?"
He looked up for the first time. He looked as if he had no idea I was here.
"Well. . .technically yes."
"Mr. Warner, tell me more about yourself, please. I'll forget all about your little," I plucked up my drink and brought it to my mouth, "tantrum if wecan just be friends."
"Friends, huh?" he rolled up the painting and placed it next to the easel on the table.
The guy was like a big teenager. Yes, he was refined and apparently older. But how much older? When he spoke his voice was youthful and interesting, he acted as if he always was on camera; the way he paused frequently, squinted when he asked a question, and how he knew just what to say. His pointed, sensual lips like the David's, when he smiled he looked like a vampire cat.
I couldn't tell how old he freaking was, it's like he was painted to life!
There were some people my age in the shoppe, they glanced at Mr. Warner once or twice. They looked at me and seemed to decide in silence not to talk to us.
He began: "I'm from America too, I lived in California for a while. I had . . . a band." he sipped his drink too. "I got discovered. Then moved here."
I grimmaced at him. "You're not aweful specific are you?"
The eyes like a wolf's gleamed at me in reply, the cup bringing hot drink to his mouth. "Do you listen to music when you paint, Alice?"
"Yes."
"What kind?"
"When I paint; it's only insturmental, classical stuff. It's inspiring."
"How about when you're not painting?"
"I," I blushed. When I answer thins, people usually laugh. No one expected my answer. "I'm a heavy metal listener."
He was definitely amused.
"Who do you like?" he asked.
"System of a Down is my favorite. And Metallica, Greenday, Marilyn Manson, Poison, Skid row. . ."
"The oldies." his eyes smiled.
"They're not that old."
"That's nice to hear."
I was about to ask; but he had already gotten up, putting the money on the table. I followed him outside to the Lamborghini, "How about I see you work, I'll drive you up to my place if you're willing to start a rough draft."
"Oh. Okay. I've got my paints anyway so it's cool."
We were in the sports car on the freeway, his long hand went to the stereo. Loud music flooded the car, it was exhilerating and fun. He rolled the windows down and my hair went wild.
I looked over to him, he enjoyed himself too.
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I can explain. So far, this was an exposition. I know. Get to the gruesome stuff, right?
Don't you fret, your patience shall be hansomely (horrifically) rewarded. . . . }:^)
