She played with his sketchbook sometimes.
She smeared paint, scribbled with charcoal, coloured in with pastels, anything she could think of and find in his traveling kit. Daisy always said that art had been her favorite class in school, where she'd spent hours doodling and crafting to her heart's content. The blond was always letting these little tidbits about herself slip when she was drawing; as if, with pencil or brush in hand, she'd opened and brightly colored the memories of her life.
To the artist, she was a figure of beauty. Perhaps not traditional, like Freya or Marian, but she fascinated in her own way. As she sat under the tree by his house, absorbed in the world of color theory and proportion that could be found in his paper soul, his eyes scanned the roundness of her cheeks, the freckles peppering her nose and the bright blue of her eyes. The contrast between her pale skirt and the emerald green grass, the gentle curve of her curls, the brush of her lashes and the innocence of her smile; they all drew his attention and captivated him. As an art subject, she was exquisite.
To the boy, she was the 'annoying' friend who liked to pilfer his art supplies. As they'd gotten to know each other, the girl had taken to snitching little things of his or be in places she didn't belong. First, it had been a scrap of paper here, a used pastel there, but then it escalated. He'd sometimes find her curled up in front of his paintings when he distinctly remembered locking the door before leaving. The girl would hold onto his favorite sketchbook for days, leaving little messages on the front and back covers with the hotel's signature pens. The hotel worker would often share her views on art and its beauty with him, all while gazing up at his larger-than-life version of Felix, making him smile at her attempt at explaining brushstroke, chiaroscuro and other techniques.
Today wasn't about any of that though. Today they'd enjoy each other's company, rather than the art that linked them. They'd marvel at the fall dragonflies, wonder about where the sky touched, and laugh without a care for anything or anyone else. She'd splash him as he looked at the field of flowers across the water, making him lose his hat and gape at her. Daisy's curls would bounce and fly as she took the opportunity to run back toward the tree, picking up her feather duster to defend herself against his paintbrush. They'd play like the children they weren't, smiling and laughing while everyone else looked on.
Later, she'd draw in his book again, and the artist would watch on, easy smile in place, more than happy to share his world with someone. The sun would set as they'd lean against their favorite tree, and Daisy would try and draw out the world around her. The girl would show the boy her work, chatting happily as she twirled her instrument of choice, and the boy would nod along. With her, he was more than happy to spend his day.
So, Angelo didn't have the heart to tell her she was terrible.