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"I’m not." I dip the brush in the paint, then begin to fill in the part I outlined earlier.
"If you were, you’d be stuck trying to make ends meet in the pizza parlor. Not that there’s any shame in that, but you took the opportunities that came your way?—"
I continue painting.
"So, are you going to wait for him to get his head out of his arse or?—"
"Or am I going to stand here painting a profile of him, like a lovesick moron?" I complete her sentence for her.
"You’re painting him?"
I throw down my paintbrush in disgust, then angle the screen toward the canvas.
There’s silence then she whistles. "Wow, that’s impressive."
When I don’t speak, she clears her throat. "It’s him you’ve been painting."
It’s not a question; not when the features taking shape on the canvas show a man with thick hair, blue eyes, a hooked nose, and those high cheekbones—not to mention, that beautiful throat, the wide chest with the tattoo of the bleeding heart and the drops of blood which I’ve painted to rain over him. The background is filled with explosions. Do they hint at the war scenes he lived through? Or do they represent the anger I feel with him now? Or are they symbolic of the little flares that seem to go off whenever we're in the same space?
Or perhaps, it’s how I see him?
A man at war with himself, trying to come to grips with his past, while yearning for a future where he doesn’t have to hide himself and who he is anymore. A man trying to make peace with the part of himself he lost on the battlefields. We know how much being in combat changes the lives of the families of those who die. We know how the survivors struggle to cope with the aftermath. Yet, we send our young onto the frontlines to further the political aspirations of those in power. Will we never learn?
Until I met Quentin and started painting again, I didn’t realize I had so much to say through my craft.
"It’s stunning," Zoey’s soft voice cuts through my thoughts.
"I don’t know what it is"—I clear my throat—"but I couldn’t stop myself from painting him."
Her forehead furrows. "Your other paintings for the exhibition?—"
Once more, I flip the camera and point the screen in the direction of the paintings lined up against the wall.
She inhales a sharp breath. "Wow."
"Is that a good or bad wow?"
"Can you zoom in?"
I do, then pan across the paintings.
"Well?" I shift my weight from foot to foot. "What do you think?"
"They’re good." Her voice rings with sincerity. My muscles relax a little. Not that I’d want to make any changes to my paintings once they’re done, but she’s the first person I've shown a sneak peek of the collection, so I was nervous.
"I’m calling the collection, 'The Pitiless Wave.’"
"Poe?" She arches an eyebrow.
"Poe." I half smile.
"Hmm."
"What?" I turn the screen back to face me.
"Is he coming to your showing?"
"I wasn’t sure if I should invite him, but having spoken to you now, I think I should.” I was worried if he came, he’d see my paintings and discern all my secrets. He’d see that painting I made of him and know how much in love with him I am. He’d see the name of the collection and know I haven’t stopped thinking of him all this time. I realize, it’s only right he know everything.
