Madonna

Even with pain in his face, Michael had such a lovely one; it was the kind of lovely face that artists before me searched endlessly for, the kind of beauty that consumed you if you let it. Art existed to worship beauty like his; and there he was, sitting by my window, still watching me. He was waiting for me to say something, but I simply listened to the aria, the steady tides of the melody. I carefully sketched the details of his dark hair, thick and tucked behind his ears.

By the time the sunlight faded from my window, I knew I had finished the portrait. I glanced at him with a tiny smile, and his gaze on me fell with his stillness. He stood, stretched, reached into his pocket for his pack of cigarettes. I added a few finishing touches to the portrait as he lit his cigarette with a match, blowing pearly smoke from his lips out the open window.

I stood up, brushing my hair out of my face with my wrist to avoid my dusty, blackened fingers. I quickly signed the bottom right corner of the portrait with my messy signature before adjusting the easel higher. I positioned it towards him, stepping back and exhaling a satisfied breath. I prayed it was as good as he'd hoped; it was a goodbye gift, after all.