𝗣 𝗬 𝗥 𝗢 𝗠 𝗔 𝗡 𝗜 𝗔 | BOOK THREE

S E V E N T E E N

[graham eaton]

I stand in the door frame of Jolene's room, watching her grey-blue eyes work. She wears a pair of navy blue glasses, the shade complimenting her eye-color wonderfully. She sits at a makeshift desk painting a large piece of card stock with watercolor paint--a new set I bought for her as a home warming present when she moved in three weeks ago. The image is a landscape--a field of red flowers with balding patches where heavy herds of animals may have grazed. I watch as she switches brushes and dips her wet brush into a deeper shade, not green, not a deep violet-red, not blue, but instead dark brown. She paints a horse, deep chocolatey brown, and atop of that horse, she paints the shape of legs wearing dark black jeans. She paints another horse, this one white with black and brown spots all over its body. She paints with confidence, something most timid artists lack, like myself from my high school art classes. Beside the white horse, she paints another set of legs standing in the field, these ones wearing baggy blue jeans, then creates shadows within both pairs of pants. She uses a dark grey to create gentle highlights and then paints boots, shadowing and highlighting them properly. She changes her brush, cleans it in the tub of warm water from the tap, and grabs a new one. She creates a new shade--a mixture of white and blue creating a gentle, professional baby blue. She uses this shade to paint a long sleeved blue button down shirt. She cleans the brush and creates another shade, a light salmon color, and mimics the first shirt. She cleans the brush and paints a deep grey vest over top of each button down, shadowing and detailing the clothing. She paints skin, one man with deep chocolate skin, the other with a caramel colored skin. She texturizes the skin, making the piece realistic, then moves onto hair. She doesn't work long before moving onto painting a cowboy hat on each man's head. She finishes the detailing of each cowboy, painting a coil of rope into one man's hand, the man in the salmon who stands beside his white horse. She paints a wagon behind them and cattle surrounding them, a duo of cattle herding cowboys. Her talent is spectacular, a real eye for this kind of stuff. On the wall are dozens of reference images pinned to her cork board, most of which are of horses to properly paint the anatomy. In the background, she has music softly playing to have some sort of noise to fill the void. I knock gently on the door frame, then hook my thumb into one of my belt loops. She spins around in her chair, smiling at me.

"Hey," She says, putting her brush back into the cup of water.

I smile and step into the room. She's been living here for a few weeks and I've never stepped into her room, allowing her to have her privacy. I was raised that boys don't go into girls rooms and girls don't go into boys rooms. Her room, although once the spare bedroom of my apartment, is completely unrecognizable. Sure, the paint color on the walls is the same, the bed is the same queen mattress from before and the pictures on the wall are mostly the same as they were before she moved in, the room is now hers. The bed is now covered with a large white and grey striped duvet as well as some white and grey pillows. It was like something feminine and soft had projectile vomited all over what was once bland and old and forgotten in the back hallway of my apartment. I sit on the edge of her bed and watch her swivel in her chair.