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The first inhale was a slow dance of fire and air. Smoke curled lazily into my lungs. It was a sharp yet comforting burn.
How do I paint Amber?
No solution came.
Move on to the next.
Taking another puff, I went to the right side of the little girl and began painting Lunita. I spent a good hour on those vibrant flowers woven into her hair.
As the joint smoldered between my fingers, its earthy aroma filled the space around me—a grounding presence amidst the smell of oil paints.
Maybe, I was high as fuck, but the colors on the canvas sang a bit louder and the brush in my hand danced with a life of its own.
I finished up Lunita’s flowers, and smoke twisted in the air.
The fighter.
I stepped back and stared into her fierce eyes.
All this time I had hated Lunita, but looking at her on the canvas. . .I considered what M had said.
“Lunita is fight because she killed our mom. She killed. . .him. She killed. . .many.” M stirred. “She is the rage in us. The brutal violence. . .”
I couldn’t help but wonder if I would be standing here, if not for Lunita’s crazy ass. The very thought of all she had been through delivered chills through my body.
It’s getting harder to keep on hating you. . .psycho bitch.
I finished up with Lunita, bringing that white gown into focus.
Here and there, a lone car meandered through the streets, its headlights casting ghostly shadows that flickered and danced on the old, weathered walls of the buildings.
In the silence of the early morning, the French Quarter came to life outside.
The air was thick with the scent of beignets and coffee, the early risers of the Quarter starting their day in the dark hours, probably setting up shop for the morning rush.
The distant sound of a riverboat’s horn on the Mississippi cut through the night.
I was on M when dawn approached and the French Quarter began its transformation.
The sky, a threadwork of deep indigo, gradually lightened and streaked with hues of pink and orange as the first light of day crept over the horizon.
Next, the sounds of the night receded, making way for the morning’s chorus. Birds began to chirp.
The streets, once the domain of the night’s last adventurers, slowly filled with a different crowd. Shopkeepers opened their doors, the smell of fresh pastries and coffee growing stronger, weaving through the streets like an invitation.
Meanwhile, the clatter of delivery trucks unloading their wares provided a rhythmic backdrop to the morning.
It was odd painting M—the male version of me. Masculine features and broad shoulders. Facial hair and long dreads.
I still have to figure out who Felicity is.
Tourists—mainly the early risers eager to explore—started to trickle into the streets, their footsteps and voices adding to the burgeoning noise.
The art vendors, painters like me, but of a different kind, began to set up their displays along the iron fences.
And then, I drew myself, standing among these facets of my identity, yet distinct. Here, my strokes were firmer now, more confident. I wasn’t just sketching my physical image, but the embodiment of my essence as if. . .to paint myself was to say I was the most real of all of us.
When I finished on me, I stared at the remaining empty space on the canvas, a void for another figure I didn’t know how to draw.
