Four Years and Four Months

She stared deep into the eyes of a stranger — a portrait of a stranger, rather. Framed in gold, it sat on the gallery wall meeting her face-to-face. As she gazed upon it, the words, “What do you feel?” echoed her mind. She felt a sense of peace wash over her, noticing the twinkle in its eyes and the glow in its face. 

Four years and four months ago she found herself in this very spot, before this very wall. The wall was empty then, though it wasn’t supposed to be. 

“Shit,” she mumbled to the blank wall. She held up her wrist and read 4:43AM on her watch. Four hours is enough time, she tried to convince herself. 

Before she could even take a step, she saw a movement in the corner of her eye. She whipped her head around and screamed at the dark figure that passed her by. Startled by her shriek, he jolted backwards, dropping the large framed painting in his hands. 

“W-Who are you?” she stuttered, watching him scramble to pick the painting back up.

“Who are you?” he questioned beneath a ski mask. 

“I work here,” she replied. “What are you doing?”

He ignored her entirely and dashed towards the exit with the painting in hand.

“You can’t take that!” she said firmly, though it wasn’t enough to stop him.

“Please,” she begged. “I’ll lose my job.”

He stopped at the other end of the room and looked at her. Despite their unacquaintance, her eyes seemed so familiar. He slowly lowered the painting to the ground, shaking his head. 

“What am I doing?” he muttered. “I’m so sorry. I was never here.”

He turned away, but she called out, “Wait!” before he could walk off. “That’s it? You’re just gonna leave?”

“Should I stay and wait for you to call the police?”

“Why did you want that painting?”

“I was gonna sell it. I need the money.”

She, too, recognized his eyes.

“You’re not a very good thief, are you? Answering all of my questions.”

“Well I'm not a thief.”

“You said you need money?”

He nodded.

“I can pay you if you help me put up an art installation tonight. How’s 50 bucks?”

“50? I should’ve just stolen the painting.”

“There’s still time.”

She didn’t expect him to spit out such an unruly laugh, but she took pride in it nonetheless.

“There’s no way that’s worth $50.” She peered onto the canvas of messy lines, shapes and splotches.

“It’s an original. By a lesser-known artist, sure, but worth at least a couple hundred.”

She sighed, “I’ll give you 150.”

“175.”

“Okay, I give you nothing and call the cops.”

“150 it is!” He strode towards her and removed a glove before holding out a hand. As she shook it, they tried to play off the unexpected spark that was felt from their touch. Although, they held hands long enough that had a third person been in the room, they would have felt as though they were intruding.

“Okay, boss,” he said, freeing them from their daze. “What do you want me to do?”

. . . 

“This one to mark 30.”

She handed him a long, thin panel and he placed it on a part of the floor marked ‘30’. It sat straight up against the wall, matching his height.

She sifted through the rest of the panels sitting in a large bin, and pulled out another.

“Mark 42,” she said, as he took it from her. She heard him panting through his ski mask as he set it down.

“You know you’d be able to breathe better with that off.”

“If I did that, you’d know what I look like.”

“If I wanted to report you, I would have done so by now.”

He realised that if she was willing to trust the man who was about to rob her, he could surely trust her.

He removed the ski mask and fluffed his flattened hair. 

He was easily a beautiful man, she thought, but not in a way that was obnoxious. His downturned eyes and his weary smile exuded a subtle humility. She already found him intriguing with the ski mask, but even more so as she gazed upon his soft, kind features.

Lost in thought, she hadn’t even realised he now stood before her face-to-face, with his mouth moving.

“Huh?” she asked.

“I asked what mark this was.” He touched the panel her hand was resting on.

“Oh.” She grabbed the sheet of instructions and drew a finger across the page. “Umm, 23,” she stuttered. 

He took the panel out of the bin, and smiled to himself once he turned away.

“I feel like I’m putting together some sort of puzzle,” he said. “Is your job always this fun?”

“I’m not sure I’d call this fun. To be honest, I never really liked the art aspect of this job”

He approached her confusedly. 

“You work at an art gallery and you don’t even like art?”

“18.” She handed him a panel.

“Why do you even work here?” 

“My aunt’s the gallery manager. I needed a job so she made me gallery assistant.”

He chuckled lightly as he set up the panel. “Earlier you said you could lose your job. I don’t see how that’s possible if your aunt’s your boss.”

“I’ve been messing up a lot. She’d have to let me go if — 27,” she handed him another panel. “... if I made another mistake. Forgetting to put up an installation plus being the reason we get robbed is reason enough.”

“How were you the reason?”

“I turned off the silent alarms to get in.”

“Ohh.” He journeyed back towards the bin. “The ones that helped me get in.” 

“What a coincidence, huh?”

“I don’t believe in coincidences.”

They met one another’s gaze as she handed him the final panel. 

“4,” she said without looking away. Their hands grazed as he took it from her.

As he set up the last panel, she set the artist’s statement on the wall beside the installation.

They stepped back and stared at it together. The panels rested along the wall like a set of dominoes, some protruding further from the wall than others. 

“What is it?” she asked, unimpressed.

He stepped around the panels in inspection, slowing down towards the left side of the installation.

“They’re eyes.”

“Oh,” she said as she joined him.

He leaned his head towards hers, “What is this called?”

“Before/After Love,” she replied.

He walked over to the right side to find that the panels arranged in such a way revealed another set of eyes.

“This must be the ‘after,’” he said.

She followed him to the right side and stood by his side again.

After a moment of contemplative silence, he turned to see her disinterested expression.

“See the way the eyes crinkle slightly,” he started. “…as if the person were smiling. But not a bright smile. It’s subtle, like how you smile when you’re relieved. And the warm colours, they help create this kind of glow, this twinkle in the eyes — like the person is at peace.” 

“Hmm.”

“And the use of the panels! You stand at any other angle and it looks like nonsense, but only when we stand in this spot does it make sense. Like the way love finds you all of a sudden, at a random point in time, you know?”

“Well now it sounds like you’re reaching.”

“Possibly. But that’s art: interpretation.”

She smirked at him sceptically. “You’re an artist, aren’t you?”

“I was… once, but it was too demanding. I don’t have the time.”

“But you have enough time to steal a painting, right?”

“Ha ha,” he mocked. “Come with me.” He held out a hand to her. She nervously took it and he pulled her over to the left side of the artwork.

“Now look,” he pointed at the centre of one of the eyes. “The pupils are less dilated in this one. And the eyes are more downturned. They don’t look sad, necessarily, but more so—”

“Empty,” she interrupted.

 They met each other’s gaze in some sort of agreement; understanding.

“I feel like I’m looking in a mirror,” he laughed as he ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know why, but this reminds me of my family. I miss them a lot, I think that’s why. I think my eyes look like these because they're not around.” 

Her hand on his shoulder and her sympathetic smile spoke louder than words.

“Why aren’t you with them?”

“I grew up in a rough area. Lived around a lot of crime, but my parents raised me to be better than that. I found a job here and moved. They’re really proud of me and grateful that I left, but it doesn't make it hurt any less.

“There was talk around the warehouse about laying people off, so I might be out of a job soon.”

“More reason to start your art career.”

“I don’t know…it’s too unstable.”

“Well, with no job, what else will you do with all that time on your hands?”

“Shut up,” he cackled and she laughed with him.

“So what about you?” he asked.

“What about me?”

“What do you…” 

~

“…feel?”

“What do I feel? I feel…umm.”

She stared intently at the painting he almost stole four months ago. 

“I feel…” she started, “...like an idiot because I’m just now realising this painting is a portrait.”

He snorted a laugh that she hadn’t heard since the night they met. 

It was as though she was looking at the lines and shapes and splotches with an entirely different set of eyes.

“Did you think it was just a whole bunch of nothing?”

“I did, but I'm looking at it now and it’s all making sense all of a sudden.”

“Pretty rewarding, isn’t it?”

“I see why you like this stuff.” She turned to him. “Have you painted since I saw you last?”

“I have. A lot, actually…”

He ruffled through his hair as he paused. “I submitted some work to the gallery recently.”

“Shut up!”

“I’m so proud of you,” she said as she rested a hand on his upper arm, and he fought a smile, although it showed anyway. 

“I have you to thank, you know. You pushed me.”

“You pushed me.” 

“Let me paint you.” 

He said it the same way he did the first time.

They had long finished putting up the installation, but talked into the morning. They were standing before the panels when she asked to see him paint. And soon enough, they were bringing painting supplies to her office. 

She sat on the couch while he wheeled her desk chair out to sit in front of her. They were separated by an easel on which his canvas rested, while acrylic paints and brushes were sprawled across the desk. 

“So how long have you been working here?” he asked as he blocked out the various shapes within her face on the canvas.

“Almost five years.”

“That’s a long time to be working a job you're not passionate about.”

“I could say the same about you.”

“What would you rather be doing?”

“I always liked science in school, but near the end I got into some trouble and flunked out.”

“Is that why you came here?”

“Partly, and because I grew tired of dodging beer bottles and hearing how bad of a daughter I was.”

“What would you study if you could?” he asked as his paintbrush moved down from the forehead.  

“Geology,” she replied without hesitation. 

“Why?”

“I don’t know…” She pondered for a moment. “It’s just fascinating how there are billions of years of history right beneath our feet, and only a fraction has been discovered.”

He thought the way her eyes twinkled made her even more beautiful than she already was. As his paintbrush danced across the eyes, he only hoped to capture this glow. 

“There are so many hidden clues beneath the earth to tell us about the past. That’s the kind of puzzle I wish I could solve.”

“Why don’t you then?”

She laughed. “I’m not sure I’m smart enough for that.”

“But you haven’t tried. If you tried, then maybe you could be.”

“Because it’s that easy, right?” she snarked. 

“It actually is, yes,” he laughed sardonically. 

They sat in silence as he continued down the face. He felt a sort of longing staring at her lips to paint them. 

“You know this is the first time I’ve painted in years?”

“Really? You seem like you do this all the time.”

“Like riding a bike, I guess.” He roughed out the curls in her hair down to the wrinkles on her shirt. 

“I forgot how much patience this requires,” he chuckled. “…takes up so much time.”

Time. She glanced at her watch. 

“Shit,” she spat. “The gallery’s gonna open soon. You have to go.”

“Wait, don’t move!” He pulled out his phone and took a photo of her portrait. “…so I can finish it later.”

She peered around the easel, but he stopped her. 

“Can I see?” she asked, doe-eyed. 

“It doesn’t look very good, it’s only the underpainting. Just lines and shapes and splotches.”

She looked anyway. 

“Wow,” she sighed, as she gazed upon the various colourful shapes that made up her face. “It’s so beautiful even though it’s unfinished.”

“Easy to do when painting someone as beautiful as you.”

She turned her head, meeting him eye-to-eye.

The space between them was tense to the point where it became unbearable for them both. She practically lunged towards him to kiss him. He kissed her back, slowly and gently.

Pulling away, they stared at one another yearningly. 

“Maybe I’ll get to paint you again someday, my muse,” he said before he left. 

That day, he in fact fled the gallery with a painting. And she in fact felt as though she’d been robbed. 

~

“I can’t.”

“It can be a small painting. It won’t take as long as the first one.”

“I have to go to my aunt’s soon to pack. I leave for college first thing tomorrow.”

His eyes lit up. “Geology?”

She nodded.

“I’m so happy for you.” Without a second thought, he threw his arms around her. She was taken aback only for a moment before hugging him back.

“I was getting my GED the past four months.”

“So that’s where you've been.”

“Yeah. Why? Were you looking for me?”

He paused shyly, “I came here almost everyday after work.”

“To see me?”

He nodded.

She chuckled and he asked, “What?”

“I worked part-time while getting my GED, most of which could have been done from home. Instead, I came to the gallery everyday… hoping to see you.”

They shared a piercing gaze that could have burned through walls.

“What time did you usually get off work?” 

“4pm.”

“That’s when my classes started.”

He laughed wistfully, “We never stood a chance.”

She shook her head in agreement. 

With full knowledge that she had to leave, they stared at the abstract portrait in silence, soaking in their last few moments together. And finally, a long, warm embrace ended their time together.

“You can paint me the next time you see me.”

“Okay,” he smiled, knowing as much as her that next time for the two of them wasn’t promised. 

~

She stared into the eyes of a stranger. A portrait she recognized, but no longer associated herself with. Four years and four months made her a different person entirely. She felt estranged, but oddly at the same time, felt seen. She noticed the way the eyes crinkled ever so slightly and the way the colours made the face glow. Face-to-face with the painting, it was almost like looking in a mirror.

“My muse.”

She turned around and there he was, looking as though no time had passed through him. She was the first to embrace him, and he had to fight every bone in his body not to stay in that hug forever.

“How was college?”

“Hard,” she sighed. “…but gratifying.”

“I’m so happy for you,” he smiled.

She directed her attention to the portrait on the wall. The same wall at which they met.  

“This is just…wow,” she said. “You finished it.”

“I did — well, I repainted it on a larger canvas, but yes.” He paused. “I was worried you’d mind,” he said shyly. “…using your face.”

“Of course I don’t mind. You made me look gorgeous,” she chuckled. 

“I only painted what I saw.” He met her eyes, “You’re as beautiful as the day we met.”

She laughed nervously.

“I like…I like the way each of the brushstrokes are so distinct, and less…blend-y.”

He snorted his infamous vile laugh that she was surprised to realise she’d missed. 

“Blend-y?” he mocked. 

“Shut up,” she laughed.

“Sorry, go on.”

“Well, it sorta takes away the sense of realism, yet it’s still very realistic, in a more expressive way — like there’s more emotion to be felt versus if it were…”

“…blend-y?” 

“Yes,” she said. “Did that sound like a whole lotta nothing?”

“Not at all,” he replied. “It was very insightful, thank you.”

She glanced at her watch and chuckled suddenly.

“What?” he asked.

“It’s 4:44.”

He smiled.

“We met four years and four months ago, today,” she said.

“So it seems.”

“What a coincidence — but you don’t believe in those, right?”

“Right.”

“So what’s next for you?” he asked.

“I find a job.” 

“I hear they’re looking for gallery assistants.”

She laughed.

“I’ll be staying with my aunt until I find something.”

“So you’ll be here…”

She nodded.

“Let me paint you.” 

It wasn’t until he said those words that she realised she’d been waiting those entire four years to hear them. And all of a sudden, everything made sense.

“… Unless you have to be somewhere.”

“I’m right where I need to be.”