metallic thud. He rolls up his sleeves and I see a half-sleeve tattoo on his left arm. Koi fish curl around the underside of his wrist and stretch toward his elbow, surrounded by blue water and kelp.
I wonder if he’s a water sign.
He licks his lip and I realize I’m staring. I can’t help it.
“I’m going to get started,” he says. “Think you can act as lookout until I need your eye?”
I nod and head back toward the fire escape, clutching tight to the metal to keep myself steady as I watch for movement on the ground. When I hear the familiar hiss of paint, I turn to peek at what he’s doing. Ezra pauses in the streak he was pulling across the wall.
“Eyes front,” he calls softly. “No spoilers. I’ll let you know when I’m ready for you.”
“Are you shy?” I tease. “Color me surprised.”
He looks down at his paint. “It’s weird having someone watch me do my off-hours painting, is all.”
I can relate, so I obey his request and don’t look again, even though I’m dying to know what he’s doing. I find a barrier that’s been raised that doesn’t make me feel like I’m going to tip over the edge of the roof. I lean against it, watching people below. They’re coming from a restaurant or bar in groups, laughing as they walk. For the first time in months, it doesn’t make me feel alone. Right now I’m exactly where I want to be.
The hissing behind me stops. I fight the urge to turn around. Fumes from the paint rise up in a cloud around us, making me a little dizzy. Or maybe it’s the sound of my name on his lips. “Mia,” Ezra says.
I fight the smile tugging at the corners of my lips and turn to see what Ezra created.
It’s the woman again, a different take on the same soul that touched me so deeply. Painted in bold blues and white and purple, she’s a splash of color, dimming the browns and grays around her. This time, she’s singing, and her song flows out of her mouth as golden wind and birds and stars. The colors become clouds, and two boys stand at the far end of the music, their eyes closed, listening. My gaze lingers on the boys. One of them smiles. The other looks pained, his profile downcast, his shoulder slumped.
I feel that boy’s pain bloom in my chest. The beauty of his expression, the vulnerability of it latches into my heart and doesn’t let go.
In my time at art school, I saw lots of paintings that were full of emotion, fewer that showed mastery of style, and fewer still that tugged at me personally somewhere deep inside. I remember one created by an exchange student of her mother, who she’d never known. The first time I saw it, I took a picture and sent it to Iris, because it was too incredible not to share. A faceless woman stood on a bridge overlooking San Francisco. Mist surrounded her, blurring her lines, but the city shone bright and bold. Every time I looked at it, I could sense the longing for the mother alongside the joy of a life well lived.
Ezra’s piece wakens that same feeling in me – incredible sorrow edged by euphoric joy. Beautiful isn’t a strong enough word for it.
He clears his throat and brings me back to reality. “What do you think?”
I move my head side to side in awe. “This is incredible work, Ezra.”
He exhales softly. “Thanks.” After a beat, he says, “Now give me the real answer.”
“This is my real answer,” I say, taken aback.
“You know what I mean,” he says. “That interpretation that nobody else gets, the spark nobody sees but you. I need your eyes, Mia. You keep me real.”
It’s been so long since I’ve been able to experience this, to share my thoughts with someone who understands. It’s freeing. Ezra takes my hand, and I can feel the warmth radiating off of him. Underneath the lingering scent of paint, I can smell that delicious spice of his. I barely resist pulling him down by the collar and burying my nose in the crook of his neck. Instead I focus on the painting.
Opening himself up to such
I wonder if he’s a water sign.
He licks his lip and I realize I’m staring. I can’t help it.
“I’m going to get started,” he says. “Think you can act as lookout until I need your eye?”
I nod and head back toward the fire escape, clutching tight to the metal to keep myself steady as I watch for movement on the ground. When I hear the familiar hiss of paint, I turn to peek at what he’s doing. Ezra pauses in the streak he was pulling across the wall.
“Eyes front,” he calls softly. “No spoilers. I’ll let you know when I’m ready for you.”
“Are you shy?” I tease. “Color me surprised.”
He looks down at his paint. “It’s weird having someone watch me do my off-hours painting, is all.”
I can relate, so I obey his request and don’t look again, even though I’m dying to know what he’s doing. I find a barrier that’s been raised that doesn’t make me feel like I’m going to tip over the edge of the roof. I lean against it, watching people below. They’re coming from a restaurant or bar in groups, laughing as they walk. For the first time in months, it doesn’t make me feel alone. Right now I’m exactly where I want to be.
The hissing behind me stops. I fight the urge to turn around. Fumes from the paint rise up in a cloud around us, making me a little dizzy. Or maybe it’s the sound of my name on his lips. “Mia,” Ezra says.
I fight the smile tugging at the corners of my lips and turn to see what Ezra created.
It’s the woman again, a different take on the same soul that touched me so deeply. Painted in bold blues and white and purple, she’s a splash of color, dimming the browns and grays around her. This time, she’s singing, and her song flows out of her mouth as golden wind and birds and stars. The colors become clouds, and two boys stand at the far end of the music, their eyes closed, listening. My gaze lingers on the boys. One of them smiles. The other looks pained, his profile downcast, his shoulder slumped.
I feel that boy’s pain bloom in my chest. The beauty of his expression, the vulnerability of it latches into my heart and doesn’t let go.
In my time at art school, I saw lots of paintings that were full of emotion, fewer that showed mastery of style, and fewer still that tugged at me personally somewhere deep inside. I remember one created by an exchange student of her mother, who she’d never known. The first time I saw it, I took a picture and sent it to Iris, because it was too incredible not to share. A faceless woman stood on a bridge overlooking San Francisco. Mist surrounded her, blurring her lines, but the city shone bright and bold. Every time I looked at it, I could sense the longing for the mother alongside the joy of a life well lived.
Ezra’s piece wakens that same feeling in me – incredible sorrow edged by euphoric joy. Beautiful isn’t a strong enough word for it.
He clears his throat and brings me back to reality. “What do you think?”
I move my head side to side in awe. “This is incredible work, Ezra.”
He exhales softly. “Thanks.” After a beat, he says, “Now give me the real answer.”
“This is my real answer,” I say, taken aback.
“You know what I mean,” he says. “That interpretation that nobody else gets, the spark nobody sees but you. I need your eyes, Mia. You keep me real.”
It’s been so long since I’ve been able to experience this, to share my thoughts with someone who understands. It’s freeing. Ezra takes my hand, and I can feel the warmth radiating off of him. Underneath the lingering scent of paint, I can smell that delicious spice of his. I barely resist pulling him down by the collar and burying my nose in the crook of his neck. Instead I focus on the painting.
Opening himself up to such
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