To Paint My Love

Seven months. Two hundred thirteen days. Countless hours of taking him in and drawing. We’ve fallen into a coincidental pattern. The museum is a place of refuge for me, to be inspired by great artists before me. I’ve filled numerous sketchbooks with my own renditions of their work. Customized color palettes, different line work, or concept. It's where I feel the most myself. A variety of murals, sculptures, and portraits have given me plenty to work with. But it was the moment my gaze fell on him, the feeling of my heart skipping in my chest, that I’d found the most beautiful work of art.

Now I sit on a bench in front of the painting he ends his visits at. Taking in the array of colors and the way the lines draw the eyes to the top of the canvas. The sketchbook is wrapped in the most delicate paper with a ribbon tied around it. It shivers in my trembling hands. My heart thrums against my chest, echoing in my ears. Will he appreciate the way I tried to capture his porcelain skin? The way I tried to create the same texture as the sculptures in the museum. I imagine it being smooth as stone but carved and dimpled in places I’ve only been able to imagine seeing. My cheeks flush at the thought.

During one of our visits, I slipped past him trying to get a better view of his eyes. The quick glimpse made my knees tremble. My feet shuffled past him. But I was able to catch the blueish green of his eyes as they briefly met mine. I spent that entire visit trying to master and create the beautiful color again. It was like the color of tropical waters. Or the color of the dress from John Singer Sargent’s Portrait of Millicent, Duchess of Sutherland. The color is exquisite, but the brush strokes create a satin like texture for the dress. My hands ached as I tried to create that same silky texture for his eyes. I imagine those wandering, taking in all my body, leaving that feeling of silk against my skin.

My breathing hitched and I shoved the thought away. I inhale deeply through my nose and allow my shoulders to fall as I exhale through my mouth. Still no sign of him. A heaviness fills my chest. Disappointment. Will he not come? I glance back at the gift in my hands. Knees bouncing anxiously beneath it. He had a similar sketchbook he brought with him to the museum. I’d seen him working in it from a distance. Though my drawings did him no justice. A frown tugged at the corner of my lips. The way his hands danced across the pages as he created was soulful. I wanted to capture that dance in my own drawings. Showing the arches and extension of his long fingers, their firm grip on his pens or pencils depending on the day. Eraser residue still stains some of the pages of my book.

It was one of the first times I’d encountered the feeling of anger when creating my art. My attempt to capture those hands and the way they worked, appeared to be more like the claws of a demon. Tearing apart pages, devouring anything that came into their grasp. Not anywhere near how I wanted them to appear. Soft, gentle, angelic. In person, the movements were like a dance, fluid across the page, to a creative beat only he could hear and feel. Tears had pricked the corners of my eyes from the frustration of not being able to capture the beauty of the real thing. I swallowed against the lump forming in my throat at the memory. Inhale. Exhale. Where is he?

One beautiful flower stuck out from the painting before me, it’s color like honey. It reminded me of his hair. The beautiful locks that fell loosely into his face when he was hunched over his own sketchbook. Another frown tugged at my lips. All the drawings I created didn’t match his hair as nicely as Rachel Ruysch does in her Flowers in a Glass Vase, with a Cricket in a Niche painting. I imagined running my hands through his hair, the feeling as soft as the petals of those flowers.

The soft murmurs of voices rang in my ears. The dress I wore rubbed against a soft spot on my back, scratching it to the point it burned with even the slightest movement. My head ached from how tightly I’d pulled it into a slicked back bun. It took great focus to keep my hands from rubbing at my itchy eyes. I don’t want to smudge the makeup I worked hard to perfect. Hours had passed and my stomach was starting to growl from the hunger now settling there. The feeling of defeat followed, settling in my chest. Maybe I should have given this to him last week when I last saw him. I’d filled the final page in my book. It’s my favorite of all the drawings I’ve done.

One of the two of us. Sitting side by side on this bench. My eyes on him while his lay on something before us, not in the view of the viewer. There is a twinkle in my hazel eyes, adoration. Maybe even love. My cheeks flushed. How silly to feel such a deep connection with someone I have never spoken to before in my life. Defeat spread through my chest into my stomach leaving it in knots. The pull and scratchiness of my dress began to feel silly, as did the makeup. The wrapped book in my hands became so heavy I nearly dropped it. My lip quivered; tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. Shame and embarrassment colored my cheeks.

“Ahem,” the sound causes me to straighten. When I turned toward the sound, I had to fight the urge to slump forward. There he stood. A box in hand.

“Oh,” words escaped me. I gaped at him unsure of what to say. “Hello.” The word was hardly audible.

“Hi, I’m Lincoln.”

A soft smile played across my lips. “Norah.”

“May I sit?”

I nodded. My eyes were glued to him as he waltzed to the other side of the bench to sit beside me. This was the first time I’d seen him dressed in khakis and a button up shirt. As if he were coming from an important event. I shifted on the bench to make room, becoming more aware of the item in my hands. He plopped down and shifted beneath the box in his hand. We smiled at each other then turned to the painting before us. The silence between us wasn’t awkward or uncomfortable. But peaceful. It was a silence I could relax into.

I finally said, “it’s beautiful.”

Lincoln looked over at me and breathlessly said, “yeah, it is.”

“I, uh…” The smooth paper protecting the sketchbook felt rough in my palms. When I looked into those eyes, his eyes, I felt as though I’d float away. The sensation had me flinging the gift from my hands into his lap. “I brought this for you.”

A honey-colored lock fell into his face as he peered down at the paper wrapped item. The hands I had watched dance across pages for the last several months now trembled. They lacked all their familiar grace as they tore into the wrapping. My chest tightened as the leather-bound book slipped out. With every flip of a page my heart skipped a beat. Lincoln didn’t make a sound, it seemed he was holding his breath as he took in the book. His fingers glided the last page to its resting place revealing the picture of the two of us.

His cheeks flushed the brightest shade of red. Not a sound escaped him. Then he shoved the box into my lap. “For you.”

“Me?”

Lincoln’s smile sent a warmth spreading through my gut. I tugged at the ribbon on the box. My mouth dropped open when I slid the lid open and took in the item inside. “When did you…how?”

“I have a sketchbook of my own, with similar drawings to these,” he held my book up when he spoke.

Looking back into the box, my vision was blurred from tears. It was a painting…of me. Amid beautiful large flowers. I sat hunched over my sketchbook, a pencil in hand. Knees up propping it up beneath me. My dark hair popped against the light colors of the flowers around me. Some of the flowers matched the ones in the painting he ended his museum visits at.

“It’s beautiful,” I squeaked.

“Well, you’re beautiful, and talented. These drawings are incredible.”

“You’re incredible,” the words slipped from my mouth before I had a moment to think.

He blushed but chuckled. “I was worried you’d find the gift too forward. And I wasn’t quite sure how to approach you before.”

“I thought you weren’t going to show up today and I wouldn’t see you again or have the chance to give you that.”

When he reached for my hand, I didn’t pull away. Everything about this moment felt right. Meant to be. I couldn’t pull away, not from him.

With my hand in his he pulled me to my feet and stood at me side. “Let’s talk more over lunch, and then we can make plans to continue to see each other again.”

“I’d like that.”