This story was inspired by The Laugher in the Rye, who was kind enough o allow me to use it. Eeep! Thank you so much!
Marco painted the last stroke onto his canvas. His masterpiece was finally complete.
He sighed with satisfaction. Perfect.
It even might sell.
He'd been a fool to think it would sell. The painting was instantly rejected by the gallery. The critic he showed it to said that his anatomy was completely wrong.
This had happened so many times that he lost count.
Marco sighed, walking down the street. He slumped over, disappointed in his failure. Almost automatically, he straightened his spine.
I should be used to it. I 'm always turned down, anyway.
He continued down the street, only stopping to sketch an occasional street musician or ice cream cone in his notebook. Near the end of the street, he turned left to entered his usual café.
Pulling out a metal chair for himself, Marco settled in and took a look at the busy, bustling room.
"You want the regular, I'm guessing?"
Marco looked up to see a familiar waiter. "'Course I do, Angela."
Several minutes later, a warm blueberry-lemon muffin and a caramel latte appeared on the table in front of him.
Now this the food Marco liked.
He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes, smiling as he took a bite of the muffin. It was only made better with a sip of his coffee-
"Can I sit here?"
Once again, Marco looked up, but saw an unfamiliar face. Some man with sandy, light brown hair that turned brown at the sides. Someone who was tall and long-legged. Someone who looked like he was something out of da Vinci's paintings.
Someone to study anatomy from.
Marco blushed, and stuttered out, "Yeah...yeah, sure, um...like, go ahead..."
The brunette sat down at the chair next to him. "Hey, my name's Jean."
A perfect name for this handsome man. Jean: Gift from God.
Oi, shut up, Marco!
Dammit, why was this guy so fucking good-looking?
Jean arched an eyebrow. "Well, thank you...?"
Holy shit. He had just said that thought out loud.
"Um. I'm sorry-I... was...oh, never mind. Myname'sMarco." He quickly said that all ou at once.
Real smooth, yep, real smooth.
Nevertheless, the two began to engage in conversation, and by the time the café closed, they had told each other their life stories. Jean was excited to hear that Marco was an artist, for he himself liked art, but "painted like a shitty asshole." Marco was relieved that Jean wasn't mad at him for being really weird, but he was still embarrassed like hell.
That night, they parted ways, never to see each other again.
At least that was what they thought.