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Writing  \ Story


Curiously I follow the contrasting shapes in the door opening. The kitchen breathes drowsy morning light that is countered by the heavy curtain blackness of the bedroom. You’re making coffee. A couple months ago this silhouette was still completely unknown to me. Tiny fragments slowly add up. They’re building up and each time more of you is revealed. I dream of dipping a fresh paintbrush into the fresh coffee and capture you with one decisive stroke. Tall, with those long limbs that move carefully and intentionally. I know how they feel to the touch; there is a softness between the solid muscle and addictively smooth skin. So strong when you pick me up or a cozy cushion to luxuriously drape myself over. You hand me a steaming hot cup, and sip after sip, I dip and you have no idea.

They have numerous tales to tell: moving in circles and squares, up and down they go. They were one of the first things I knew about you, I loved about you. Truly, they are divine. Twice the size as mine and I imagine them touching my face and neck and grabbing me close early each morning. Heck, I’m certain even the piano has these kind of thoughts. Since the first time I met you I’ve been wanting them to sit still and let me draw them, over and over again, with a newly sharpened pencil until I truly manage to capture their spirit. I haven’t had the courage to ask you yet, I’ve always been too shy. So I guess, in the meantime, I’ll just let them hold onto mine.

A feast for the eyes! The eyes! And how I try and try and try. We are sitting on a park-bench surrounded by this intense November color explosion. The sun shines patchy on the grass through a chestnut tree that is already halfway to winter’s nakedness. The spot sets it’s course straight towards us but suddenly disappears, sadly. You’ve been telling a story that I’m only faintly listening to as I’m preoccupied by your face.

I look at how one of your dimples dents cheeky when you laugh and I count the freckles on your ear; four, but I know from previous examinations that there is one more, hidden somewhere on the backside. I look at how the bridge of your nose curves into your dark brown eyebrow which looks stern and determined. Then, in a ash, the sun returns and generously bathes us in it’s light.

There they are. Your eyes.

An elusive pale blueish green with maybe even some tiny dots of burnt yellow. Fully encircled by a ring of this deep midnight blue. They play a highly captivating balancing act, shifting between warm, kind or terribly mischievous in a second. I know you’re telling me something that you’re passionate about by the shimmer of excitement that glazes over them. Thankfully you mistake my staring for superb listening skills and I drift o again. In my mind I start mixing titanium white with turquoise and olive green. More white, more green and a miniature amount of raw sienna. Or should I have used ochre? The more I blend the messier it becomes and my vision ends with this dense, blurry cloud. Surely, an actual cloud moves over and the moment has passed. I promise myself that this time I’ll remember the exact image, this time I’ll paint them for eternity to exist. For this time I’ll try even harder and put you on paper.

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