Time skip - Japan
2. an artist
The first time I saw him was…extraordinary to say the least; especially as he was a pale blob of shimmering blue surrounded by a kaleidoscope of spring flowers. For a split second I could swear I was transported into a crappy romance movie, not that the atmosphere is nearly idealistic enough. Besides the guy is seated cross-legged on the floor with a canvas propped up against a ratty back pack.
Strange…I consider simply jogging past him, moving on my way before the sun finishes its slow ascent into a sky that's looking remarkably more like the artist's hair with each moment that pasts. Yet something holds me back, maybe it's the way his fingers move back and forth in a rhythmic dab-dab-mix-dab motion; but then again it could be the steady growth of trillions of tiny daisies that are making their way across the canvas. Whatever the reason, I pause in my morning jog – maybe I could call it a scouting mission – to stare over the boy's shoulder at his work.
This new environment filled with new people and a different culture seemed to be rubbing my nerves raw. It's the first time since my arrival here that the pressure of being an outsider is set on the back burner of my chaotic thoughts. The movement of the artist's paintbrush enthrals me and I watch each stoke with buzzing curiosity. Not only is the man good, but he's great at what he's doing. Within moments the blank canvas is overflowing with cheerful, flower heads and a curiously clear blue sky – again reminiscent of the boy's oddly coloured hair.
I'm not entirely sure how the painting manages to look this joyful considering the artist's lacklustre posture and the simplicity of the scene. Yet somehow it makes me feel lighter, warmer than any amount of friendly neighbour-talk that had occurred in the last few days. Somehow this artist captures the loneliness I'd been feeling for weeks before my move to Japan, and for the few days afterward, and banishes them with the delicate stroke of his brush.
Suddenly there's a choked sound and the paintbrush stalls, small fingers tightening around the thin wooden handle. When the boy (Man or teenager? He's so small! Just how old is this kid?) whips his head around, I nearly jump from my skin and stumble back. I'm confronted with eyes equally enthralling as the arctic hair and sky, but only in colour.
My cheeks flush and I take another stumbling step back, further away from that bland expression that really is too pretty for a guy of any age.
"What do you want?" The artist asks, his voice is surprisingly strong, but still as soft and quiet as his delicate features suggest. There's a splotch of yellow paint smeared across his cheek.
I struggle to formulate an intelligent response as my mind whirs over my limited Japanese. Damn, why's this kid so cute? I have the most insane urge to pet his oddly coloured hair. I clear my throat after a moment; the guy doesn't relent in his emotionless regard of my flustered appearance. "I-I was just…ah, looking…" I wave a hand toward his artwork because I'm not sure if I used the right phrasing for my words.
They seem to content the boy though as he soon turns back to his work and diligently continues his painting as if I'd never been there in the first place. I deflate at the anti-climatic end to our limited conversation and wait one long moment more before I turn to resume my jogging.