Written from Skittery's point of view. This was an instant rush of inspiration that I had an easy time getting on paper. Enjoy!
Glum & Dumb
What if you could capture a moment in time in your hands? What if you could capture an emotion in someone's eyes forever, just by a motion in your wrist?
I can. I can lock all of that in time, just my moving my hands. I'm an artist, see a draw-er. I can see what the normal eye can't. I connect.
They like to say that I'm gloomy and am in a constant bad mood. The truth is, I'm an artist. I have a tortured soul. All artists have tortured souls. Picasso, Monet, DaVinci... I'm one of them, ya know? So it's not that I'm in a constant foul mood, it's just my job. I reserve the right to be a pessimist.
All the greats have their muses. Monet had the earth, DaVinci had the Mona Lisa, Picasso had...yeah, well, I don't know who Picasso had, but that's not the point. The point here is that I have a muse too. That girl, over there on the stairs. The one with the basket full of laundry. Yep, the one with her head in her hands, the dainty wrists bent at awkward right angles. She's my muse. Except, she doesn't know it.
Every day, I draw her. I draw her on the back of an old pape, or whatever I can get my ink stained hands on. Sometimes I draw her while looking at her. Other times, I draw her from the image in my mind's eye. When all the other guys are asleep, I wake up and draw her. Sick, I know, but she's my muse. She's why I'm an artist.
Most days, she sits there. Not always with her basket like today, but always alone. I wonder if she has any friends or if she knows anyone. She's always thinking, always pondering. And I sit here on the curb, smoking my cigarette and watching her. Even when it rains. When it rains, she doesn't like to come out, but she stares out the window.
I draw her delicate bones, the contours of her heart-shaped face. The longm dark lashes that frame her wild green eyes. The bow of her lips...that's something else, that's something special. It's like cupid's arrow, her mouth, and cupid lost his bow on her face. Racetrack says she's nothin' special to look at, but to me...she's my angel. She's my muse.
We've never locked eyes, and I don't know if she can feel my gaze reading her every emotion day after day. I know that if we ever did, that the world would stop turning. Like as I know it would be over. I'd fall victim to her spell. I might even be happy for once.
They say I'm glum and dumb. But I'm not. I'm an artist.