Friends?

623 24 0
                                    

I was in my zen at first. The brush in my hand, the canvas set up infront of me, the music was going.

Then Mr. Warner sat in the chair across from mine.

"You- want me to paint you; Mr. Warner?"

"No. I want you to paint me, Brian." he said, relaxing. A window was opened up behind him. The clean summer air filled my lungs and light from the outside created a burning halo all about him. I couldn't paint angels, I wanted to say. I started to sweat.

"Okay...Brian." First name basis, eh?

I started the outline in a cream color. I knew he could sense I was nervous. He fed off my energy like a demon...or an angel. He was enjoying my suffering, the way that I couldn't bear to look up at his beauty. When was the right time to tell him I was 15? I look about 25, at least that's what people in the movie theatres said back home when I went to the R rated stuff. "So . . .I have you figured out." I said, finishing the outline of the head.

"Oh?"

"Yes. "

"Ah, so you do recognize me. It's about time!" he laughed healthily, clapping his hands together.

The very sound of his laughter startled me, my hand slipping, smearing paint across the right side and the brush tumbled to the hard floor. We were on the second floor and the brush's echo thrummed down the stairs.

"Woops," I said. Retrieving it.

"How did you guess?" He said, adjusting his posture.

"I didn't. In the car when the music was on you were singing along to Beautiful People, and, well, I guess I can put two and two together when you sound just like the track..."

"Ha ha hah haha," he was jovial, the smile hardly left when I began painting again.

I was trying to not blush. Knowing that the biggest- and to me -one of the most important musical figures on the planet was my mentor. If I was still in my Illinois home listening to his music and being just a regular fan, I may have never guessed that he was a painter. His greatness made me feel two feet tall . . .

"Can I see any of your paintings?" I asked.

"Sure." He sprang up as if he was expecting that. He flew out the door like a phantom, returning with a sketchbook.

I surfed through his watercolor section. He explained that these were first seen on the Leno show the last time he guest starred on it.

"I like this one." I said, pointing to a colorful watercolor of a man. "What's it called?"

"When I'm old."

"I don't think you'll ever get old, Brian."

"Well. Thank you." For the first time all day, he sounded adult. With an adult answer. His adult elbow was on my teenage shoulder and he leaned down to get a better looker at my painting. I was seriously nervous, for lack of better words. I crossed my legs and sat up straight, slightly arching my back . . . secretly wanting to impress him. . .

So far the painting was his face, the coloring was realistic, whitened, his eyes I ringed with a smoky kind of black that brought out the moonish color. The left side was mostly prominent, the lips that I noticed earlier were done to perfection. "You did wonderful." said he.

Then it happened.

 I swear it happened but I wasn't quite sure. Our heads were very close while he studied the painting; he was out of my peripheral vision so I wasn't entirely sure. My hair was tucked back in a barret, leaving my ear exposed. I felt a touch to the sensitive edge of my ear by his lips, heard a small pecking sound, and it all happened so quickly I wasn't sure it happened!

I looked to him. He moved away and went back to the chair on the opposite end of the room, so nonchalant and cool, acting like nothing had happened at all.

I was warm all over, for the first time, I actually felt like my heart had movement. The ice it was incased in melted into a spring with a skipping step. My face hardly showed this, instead I picked up my brush and picked out a black; starting on the torso. . .

********************

A thousand apologies for the scene cut short! A thousand more for the wait you have endured!

In the real world, I am doing greatly in high school because I refuse to be diverted from work. This story shan't be any different!

The next chapter, Alice is back in the present after passing out from blood loss--->   

If Marilyn Manson had 3 Days to live. . .Where stories live. Discover now