go to court. Painting another portrait of Jess, number forty thousand and two. The tablets of sketches are stacked on one easel and I flip through them, seeing through the charcoal and pencil on the page, the angle of her elbow, the glow of her peach-colored skin, the tumble of her hair. Alone in my studio, I can immerse in the memory of her eyes, looking at me with that intoxicating mix of wary innocence and desire.
Trying to figure out how to get what I see in her on the page is the challenge. Like trying to tell someone how it feels to fly through the air, blue sky and snow and the rush of danger and possibility in the spins.
I can see her, the long aqua eyes, the oddity of her Roman nose, a little too big, and her wide mouth. She’s not pretty, actually, but she is a beauty. Light breaks over those planes in the most gorgeous way, and those eyes, those eyes, those eyes—they are the eyes of an ancient looking out through a young face.
That’s what I’m always trying to catch, the beauty and the ancient all in one. Not wisdom, not yet. But eventually, she’ll be wise.
I dab paint on
the canvas, adding light to her irises, my gut heavy with missing her.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
They always say that love at first sight is bullshit, but I swear I did. Somebody had told me about the old-school pancakes they served at Billy’s and I drove over there the first day of summer to check them out. It was already getting hot by the time I got out of the car at ten am. The diner was perched on an open expanse of parking lot, all boxy blond brick, a relic from 1972, the window painted with horses and saddles. Inside it was pretty much the same spirit. Bad country music, turquoise booths, linoleum tables. I couldn’t tell if it was meant to be hip and retro or had just been standing there forever. It was busy, so either way, it would probably be good food.
Jess was swinging a coffee pot around the room, her hair caught back in a long thick braid, the kind that’s meant to be practical, not messy/cool, but it was gorgeous, streaky blonde, the color of sunshine. The clothes were ordinary server, a golf shirt tucked into jeans that fit a sweet ass and long legs. All the guys at the table she was talking to were admiring her, looking at her face, breasts, legs. The hot girl who gave them breakfast.
She looked up with those old soul eyes and caught my eye and her mouth twitched into a tiny smile, and just like that, I fell. Like I knew her, like I’d been waiting to find her and finally had. There was a lot of relief in it.
But the other waitress got to me before she did and I accepted that. I sat in the booth and ordered coffee and watched Jess whirling around the room, flying from task to task with the confidence of an expert. She was too young for me. Wrong for me. I didn’t care.
When the car drove through the window and she came rushing out to see if her friend was okay, I saw that she was more than beautiful. Courageous and intelligent and vulnerable in a way that made me think I should leave her alone.
I didn’t.
Afterwards, we were standing in that hot flat parking lot and she pulled out her flip phone. I felt an ache, but I still didn’t walk away. I don’t mess with girls like her, so poor they don’t have a single good dress or a pair of shoes that aren’t scuffed, or anything else at all, like a computer or a television. It felt wrong to pursue her, knowing she’d never fit in my world, not the world I’ll have to join eventually. I’d be slumming, even if I told myself I wasn’t.
But I could help her get a job. Maybe figure out why I wanted to paint her.
Then she’d come in to apply at the Musical Spoon, looking like an ad for Colorado living with her long tanned limbs, her hair floating and free down her back, those big, earnest eyes looking out at me with wary attraction.
For awhile, it had started to feel like I had another chance to make my life right, but nope. I had to fuck it up, once again,
Trying to figure out how to get what I see in her on the page is the challenge. Like trying to tell someone how it feels to fly through the air, blue sky and snow and the rush of danger and possibility in the spins.
I can see her, the long aqua eyes, the oddity of her Roman nose, a little too big, and her wide mouth. She’s not pretty, actually, but she is a beauty. Light breaks over those planes in the most gorgeous way, and those eyes, those eyes, those eyes—they are the eyes of an ancient looking out through a young face.
That’s what I’m always trying to catch, the beauty and the ancient all in one. Not wisdom, not yet. But eventually, she’ll be wise.
I dab paint on
the canvas, adding light to her irises, my gut heavy with missing her.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
They always say that love at first sight is bullshit, but I swear I did. Somebody had told me about the old-school pancakes they served at Billy’s and I drove over there the first day of summer to check them out. It was already getting hot by the time I got out of the car at ten am. The diner was perched on an open expanse of parking lot, all boxy blond brick, a relic from 1972, the window painted with horses and saddles. Inside it was pretty much the same spirit. Bad country music, turquoise booths, linoleum tables. I couldn’t tell if it was meant to be hip and retro or had just been standing there forever. It was busy, so either way, it would probably be good food.
Jess was swinging a coffee pot around the room, her hair caught back in a long thick braid, the kind that’s meant to be practical, not messy/cool, but it was gorgeous, streaky blonde, the color of sunshine. The clothes were ordinary server, a golf shirt tucked into jeans that fit a sweet ass and long legs. All the guys at the table she was talking to were admiring her, looking at her face, breasts, legs. The hot girl who gave them breakfast.
She looked up with those old soul eyes and caught my eye and her mouth twitched into a tiny smile, and just like that, I fell. Like I knew her, like I’d been waiting to find her and finally had. There was a lot of relief in it.
But the other waitress got to me before she did and I accepted that. I sat in the booth and ordered coffee and watched Jess whirling around the room, flying from task to task with the confidence of an expert. She was too young for me. Wrong for me. I didn’t care.
When the car drove through the window and she came rushing out to see if her friend was okay, I saw that she was more than beautiful. Courageous and intelligent and vulnerable in a way that made me think I should leave her alone.
I didn’t.
Afterwards, we were standing in that hot flat parking lot and she pulled out her flip phone. I felt an ache, but I still didn’t walk away. I don’t mess with girls like her, so poor they don’t have a single good dress or a pair of shoes that aren’t scuffed, or anything else at all, like a computer or a television. It felt wrong to pursue her, knowing she’d never fit in my world, not the world I’ll have to join eventually. I’d be slumming, even if I told myself I wasn’t.
But I could help her get a job. Maybe figure out why I wanted to paint her.
Then she’d come in to apply at the Musical Spoon, looking like an ad for Colorado living with her long tanned limbs, her hair floating and free down her back, those big, earnest eyes looking out at me with wary attraction.
For awhile, it had started to feel like I had another chance to make my life right, but nope. I had to fuck it up, once again,
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