The Artist
Naruto Uzumaki. A blank canvas. One whom I had to learn so much about before I could paint feelings upon. Golden hair, smooth like paint on my palette. Blue eyes, like the glass of water I used to clean my paintbrush after painting a clear sky. Tanned skin, like the legs of my drawing table. Those arms of his could carry me across my apartment…
He doesn't seem to think of me in that manner. We're always just neighbours, crossing the hall to get to were we need to be. Saying nothing more than 'Hello, how are you?'. He would always just think of me as Sasuke Uchiha. The Artist. The one who lives alone, can't make enough money and therefore lives in a small apartment. The one without parents…
Well on the other hand, Naruto lived alone as well, and I had never actually seen anyone that might have been his parents. Then again, nobody really visited Uzumaki at all. He may have friends at work, but being in that apartment by himself, eating cup ramen, he looks a bit lonely to me…
So I stand outside my door and wait for him to pass. I always try to act cool around him, but maybe I come off as cold. We still only say our usual phrases, but he would give me sticks of Pocky as I stood outside, which I found rather strange. And being polite, I would say thank you. He would give me a broad grin. I thought he was a bit strange, but kind-hearted. He would head of to work, whereas I would go back inside, look out the window and paint the view. Or do a jester-sketch of a bird outside my window. Or maybe even draw him giving me Pocky and smiling…
And then I drew pictures for him. Lots of pictures. I would sketch an apple or something of the like and slide it carefully through his mail box, so that when Naruto returned, he wondered how it got into his room. Not sure if he knew I was an artist, I wouldn't make my signature legible. It would just be a random scribble at the bottom of the page. I would head off to work. I would come back, and he would be standing outside my door saying 'What's this?', holding up my sketch. 'It's very nice!' I would shrug and say, 'Dunno.' I would go into my apartment and smile, hoping that he would find the note on the back that read, 'Come to my art show at 2 o'clock next week on 21 Quentin Avenue!' And I would be very happy when he came…
And this brings me to today. Where I was just standing outside my door, like usual. Like usual we exchanged the usual set of words. Like usual he gave me Pocky. Like usual I said thank you and he smiled. But then he had to go and ruin my usual day by leaning in and kissing me, and then running away, saying, 'See you after work!' as he flew down the stairs. What an idiot. So of course I felt a strange sensation. A sudden burst of happiness. And with happiness came inspiration.