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I run my fingers over the tubes of paint, my mind already racing with ideas for my piece.
I settle for filling my palette with various shades of yellow, wanting to create a sort of contrast between the life I was meant to have and the one I ended up living.
The one where I ended up marrying Alexei Koslov…
I clear my throat and dip my brush into the paint, letting myself fall into a rhythm, enjoying the hustle and bustle around me as the other students work.
It’s such a contrast to the quiet studio at home. Suddenly being surrounded by people after only seeing mainly Alexei for the past four weeks has me feeling nervous to talk to anyone.
The girl beside me leans in a bit. “You’re new, right?”
I look over at her and nod, feeling my cheeks flush.
“Is it that obvious?”
She laughs, shaking her head of blonde curls.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” She chuckles, her brown eyes crinkling as she regards me. “I’m Marnie.”
“Bianca.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” She smiles.
“You too. Are you studying at this college or…”
“I’m studying Art history, but I’m taking some extra art classes in the evening to build up my course credits. I’m hoping to graduate a few semesters early.”
“Good for you.” I look over at her canvas.
“What about you?”
“I graduated from NYU last spring. I majored in marketing and minored in advertising.”
“Whoa, that’s very different from art.”
I sigh, picking up a fresh paintbrush. “It is. But this is my true passion.”
“Good for you for making time for it. Many people don’t. They just get sucked into the corporate world and leave everything that makes them happy behind them in exchange for a paycheck at the end of the month.”
“I suppose…”
“What’s your piece going to be on?”
I hesitate, putting down my brush and looking at my piece. I’ve done a rough outline of the shapes, though it’s still yet to make much sense even to me.
“My mother died giving birth to me.” Grief coats me. “So, I want to paint a contrast between two lives. One with her and one without.”
“I get that.”
I look to her and find her eyes filled with sympathy.
“My mom died when I was eight. We were in a car crash, and I survived.”
“Oh god, I’m so sorry.”
She waves me off. “It was a long time ago, but I’ve felt guilty for living ever since.”
It’s as if Marnie reached into my own mind and shared what she found out loud.
