she's an artist
she was broken but somehow she found peace
in the pieces scattered across the floor,
she's an artist
in the way she pieces herself back together
to create something stronger
and a bit more beautiful than before
~ unknown
Drip-drop. Thick raindrops have switched to small and faint pitter-patters against the wind-shield, though I find myself switching up the speed of the damn things a bit faster in order to see clearly. The ever-fogging glass tells me that the rain has only increased the speed in which it falls, which will likely leave the two of us drenched when we finally step outside. With any luck, we'll find a parking spot close to the shop so that we don't become burdened with wetness on our walk there.
"It's a nice day for tea." I croak out, finding my voice to be a little less clear than I'd prefer because the two of us have been sitting here in silence for the last several moments. Entirely lost in what to speak of with such a stranger. Entirely unsure of what he enjoys conversing about, if we share any interests.
"Your engine is making a strange noise." He finally speaks and I glance over to notice his eyes intensely staring down at the shifter, face quite blank with emotion with the exception of focused eyes and ears.
"Is it?" I whisper back, attempting to keep my voice quiet as not to disturb him.
No answer, merely a curt nod of his head before his eyes pull back up to stare out the window before us. Wondering what that means – has he determined what the noise is? Decided it's not important?
Words do not appear to be this man's strong suit, but a small smile forms over my lips as I silently chuckle to myself; for I am quite alright with that. The silence doesn't bother me, as it may with most. There's comfort in allowing life to have its moments of quietness, of not needing to fill every second with a voice or sound.
Eventually, a question enters my mind which I find myself wanting to ask and so I clear my throat to steal another glance over at him while we wait for a group of school children to pass by on the street. "What made you open a tea shop?"
His face remains so unchanged that I'm almost wondering if I'd imagined the part where I ever asked the question to begin with, when finally he swallows a small lump in his throat before answering me. "I enjoy tea."
"Oh." I hardly know what else to say. Such an honest answer; a simple one, yet I can tell he's not meaning to be satirical. It may be a painfully obvious thing to know about a person whom owns a tiny shop dedicated to selling tea, but it feels real and precious in a way that he's shared a small detail about himself to a complete stranger such as I; likely the very reason for my next few words in which I feel compelled to make the playing field a little even and share something about myself in return.
"I enjoy painting." A dismissive scoff as I wince and correct myself, "Enjoyed painting."
"You don't enjoy it anymore?" Face turned, with steel eyes staring at me when I glance back over.
"I don't really do it anymore. It's been years." I softly smile, mentally calculating the exact time and finding even myself a little surprised.
He nods, not bothering to speak any further on the subject. From a kindness in picking up my wish not to discuss it further, or a lack of interest – I'm not entirely sure. Either way, it doesn't go unappreciated as I let out a sigh and we continue on our way into town.
Thankfully a parking spot reveals itself not too far from where we're going and we dart outside during a relatively light drizzle compared to what it had been doing on the way here. My eyes fall down to his cane and I find myself wondering once again if this is a battle scar from the war. Then I'm instinctively wondering which side this man stood on…
I've heard about a few of them, the ones from the island, who live over here now. A holder of grudges, I am not. Though it may sound unrealistically so, since all that I lost came from the ones who crossed the sea to spill havoc onto this land, it's just not the way I've ever lived. Naive? Perhaps, yet that's okay. Curiosity however spills out from my eyes as I stare over at the man – my mysterious afternoon companion.
Shit. I've been caught staring. Blank eyes quickly darting over to meet mine as I pull my gaze away from his cane. It's too late, however; too ill-mannered of me to have done such a thing and so I vow not to do it again but am unable to push away the nagging feeling of somehow… somehow, I think he knew what I had been wondering.
Which side were you on?
"It's right over here." He clears his throat before reaching into a pocket to retrieve a small brass key.
Eyes widening, I suddenly notice the lack of lights. Lack of customers, lack of anything inside. "Are you closed today?"
"Yes." His voice is soft yet curt. Pushing open the door to stand aside for my entrance.
"Oh." I startle, stepping back a little and entirely on track to place a foot directly down into a large puddle, so he reaches out to grab me. Hand firming around my arm, pulling me forward with a little more strength than I had imagined him to have, which causes me to stumble in towards his chest.
"You were –" his face is now flushed, eyes desperately glancing down to the puddle as if willing it to put on a spectacle and confirm his story. "The puddle." His lips eventually force out, a small nod towards the ground.
"Thank you." I whisper, eyes equally cast down to the ground because it's the first time I've ever been quite so close to another man since, well – since ever. Only one before… only one, now two.
"You don't want to come in?" His eyes move back to mine, referencing my earlier attempt to step back from the shop's entrance.
"I didn't know that you were closed today." I bow a little, apologetic and uncomfortable at the idea of having put him out. "I should come on a day when you're open, I'm so sorry to have assumed you'd be available."
Nothing. Cold eyes remain staring at me with an expression that's ever so difficult to read. After a few more moments, his hand reaches up to the small sign placed upon the door and with a flick of his forefinger, flips it over so that the side which reads OPEN displays. My eyes follow his hand's movement, switching back to stare at him just in time to catch what I dare say is a tiny smirk upon his lips before he shrugs his shoulders and deadpans over to me, "We're open."
"T-thanks." An awkward half-curtsy – yes, a goddamn curtsy… hell have mercy upon my mortifying soul –I walk into the small spot with curious eyes, glancing around at the rows and rows of perfectly placed tins of tea, all labelled and grouped together in a way which immediately tells me this man is no amateur.
"This is very nice." I smile back towards the door, noticing that he's flipped the sign back over to indicate the shop is closed. Likely unprepared for any real customers today, I smile and give another gracious nod.
"Do you have any preferences?" He motions for my jacket and I quickly shrug it off to watch him place the two upon a coatrack near the door.
"Um…" I bite down on the inside of my cheek while recalling the latest kind I'd purchased from the market and seemed to enjoy. "I like fruity teas."
Mid-step, he stops to stare at me as if in disbelief. My mouth parts open a little as I wonder what I've possibly said, wishing I could backtrack for some reason and have a re-do. Eventually, he grinds his jaw and nods a little before mumbling, "I have some of those."
"Is that not a good answer?" I whisper over with wide eyes and a bit of sarcasm.
"Is that truly what you like?" He shoots back.
"It is," I shrug. "Convince me otherwise? I'll take whatever you recommend."
Ah, that seems to please him; yet suddenly I'm wondering why such a thing would matter to me. Before I'm entirely too caught up in my endless thoughts, he's motioning for me to take a seat at one of the tables and calling over, "I won't be recommending any infusions."
"Okay, Levi." I softly laugh, finding his name to be a little too smooth as it rolls off my tongue.
Before long, a teacup and saucer are placed before me and three different tins carefully lifted from their places as he walks over to take a seat across from mine. "Are you looking for something special for rare occasions or to find your new regular?" He asks.
Are you asking if I'll be coming in more regularly? "What do you mean?"
"This one here," his fingers tap against the tin on the far right. "Is imported from over five-thousand kilometers away. The leaves are harvested from plants which have been growing on the Kikiwaj Mountains for over fifteen years."
My mouth drops open as I reach forward to scrutinize the tea. "Take a smell." He encourages and so I lift the tin, immediately taking in the earthy notes and dark brown hues.
"It smells wonderful." I hand it back to him.
"I ask," his eyes flick back up to me with a teasing stare, "because as I said – the first cup is on the house; but if you wish to continue drinking this –"
"Let's try something else, today." I cut him off with a smile. "Something I can afford to continue visiting your shop for." That causes a tiny flash within his eyes, which causes a panic within my own. Why did I just say that? Announce my wish to keep coming here…
"This one," fingers rest upon the middle tin, "is a black tea with a bold taste and a bit of spice. Hints of honey and pepper balance out the palate."
"Mmm," I hum while taking a smell of the can held out before me. "That one smells the best. What's the third?"
"An infusion." His lips purse as he shrugs his shoulders. "Who am I to tell you what to drink."
"Well, thank you." I smile a little at his clear resentment upon even placing the ginger peach down upon the table with the other two. "I'll go with the black tea."
Another small smile, one so tiny its hardly detectable but my eyes catch a glimpse as he stands up from the table, long enough to confirm that it was there. In what I hope isn't a demonstration of my rudeness yet rather fuelled by my curiosity – or rather, a true admiration of such a beautiful and charming décor, I get up from the table to walk around as he begins to prepare our tea.
"Have you owned a teashop before?" I call out towards the kitchen, quite positive that this is far too organized for someone's first time.
A chuckle. It's soft and filled with a tinge of sadness – a tinge of sarcasm, even – yet it slips out from his lips as he looks over to me with amused eyes. "No."
No? That's all I get? Well… certainly, he's a quiet one.
"What did you do, before?" His blank eyes stare out at me and that's exactly how it is over here, isn't it?
Before.
What did you do before…? Where did you live, who were you? Before, before, before. We all know which cataclysmic event dictates our point of reference for time. Lives split, forever changed. You were something before and something after, never quite the same. None of us, truly.
A large gulp and silent eyes meet him. Touché. Let's not speak of the past, hmm?
Perhaps him catching the small look of anguish upon my face leads to his decision in taking pity as he suddenly clears his throat and provides and answer to my prior question. "I was a soldier."
"Ah," my head nods. I was right, not a surprise truly though. This place is filled with them: previous military men, all returning to the newly rebuilt scene of the crime with no understanding of where else to go or what else to do in life. Of course, I am no soldier; but just as lost, just as clueless.
The new Marley: filled with those of us still stuck in the past, still tethered to a place which left us bruised and wounded with oh so many scars. My eyes glance down to stare at his wounded foot again – a little better timed as he doesn't catch me – and I huff out a soft sigh, realizing that some scars are much more visible than others. While mine… mine are hard to describe.
Still, the question which I wish to ask I do not speak. What side were you on? Lost in thoughts of wishing to know the answer, wishing to know why I care, wondering which side I feel is more responsible – not such a simple question anymore as the years pass, I come to find. My thoughts are interrupted as he begins making his way over towards the table with a pot of freshly brewed tea.
"Thank you…" I quickly make my way back over to my chair as a cup is poured for me, quickly accompanied with a small tray of biscuits and cheese. A very nice host, this mysterious man is.
Quietness fills the room as we slowly sip our tea. My eyes widening upon the first sip, wondering how in heavens this is so delicious, so fresh, and catching his look of pleasure that I'm enjoying the strand.
My eyes glance over to the back of the shop where a large blank wall rests, a stark contrast to the other walls filled with shelves or a few sporadic paintings in frames. "Do you have a plan for that area?" My finger points behind him and I watch as his head slowly turns, catching the way his hair softly sways with the movement of his head; his bangs, really – the undercut kept smooth, short and clean. Suddenly I am silently laughing at myself for ever having doubted that he was exactly that, a soldier.
"No." He turns back to look at me while shaking his head. Words that I am far too unprepared to hear begin to tumble from his mouth as he stares up at me to ask, "How well are you at painting?"
"What?" Nearly choking on my tea, I dab with the cloth napkin at my lips.
"You mentioned that you paint." He looks amused. Enjoys others discomfort. Noted.
"Painted." I correct with a soft laugh.
"Were you any good?" An eyebrow is now raised as he awaits my answer.
"Yes," clearing my throat. "Yes, I was." Cocky, I am not; yet I know my strengths, know my talent and yes, I was very good.
A few blinks, he quietly stared before leaning in to mumble, "Can't imagine that simply goes away."
A soft hum, "Perhaps." Why are we discussing this?
"I change my answer." He suddenly leans back in his chair, reaching out to hold his cup in such a way which bewilders me. Hold on, has he been drinking tea this way the entire time? Am I just noticing such a thing? How do his fingers possibly hold the –
"What do you think?"
His voice startles me back into the present moment, realizing I've been terribly inconsiderate and lost to my own thoughts; entirely missing what he's said. My face must reveal exactly that -and hopefully a little sympathy for my ill manners – so he repeats himself. "Would you paint something there for me?" His thumb goes back to the blank space on the wall, leading my eyes to stare at it in disbelief.
He wants me to…? "Oh, I um… you should really ask someone who has been practicing. It's been years. Years…"
"I'll pay you."
He continues on as if I've said yes but I haven't, right? Certainly a little flustered but still aware of the words in which I speak, I do believe.
"What scene would look best?" He sips again, eyes staring into what feels like my very soul.
"Oh," I blush, though an idea immediately comes to mind. "Those mountains that you mentioned, where the tea grows… it would be a really neat story to tell your customers. A little scene based off the very mountains, with the sun rising in that corner and peaking over the crests – which is charming, because the sun truly rises in that direction over here and you have that little window so –" Suddenly halting, I take a large gulp. Have I just agreed to this?
"When can you start?" He nods, face suggesting that he likes all of the words which I've just said. "And your payment?"
"N-no." Quickly shaking my head and a nervous laugh. "No payment! I – heavens, I may be exceptionally out of practice. Are you sure that you wouldn't prefer to hire someone else? Someone real?"
"You're real." He stares.
"I might be really bad." My last attempt to break free from this.
No, it's useless and he reaches out a hand for me to shake and answers, "Tea will be on the house for quite a while, it appears."
A shaky smile meets him as I grab hold of his hand, suddenly hit with a desperate need to shake the warmness which appears to be bubbling from my stomach, caused by what I fear is something other than tea and so I quickly babble out to him, "Who were you visiting in the graveyard?"
His eyes widen, fingers around mine tense as I feel awful for having caught him so off guard but… perhaps more than a need to know, I need to share. Need him to know of… things.
"Friends." He answers after a long pause, so long I wasn't entirely sure I'd be receiving one. Clearing his throat, "Comrades, I don't know how to describe them. They were… family."
"Lost in the war?" I whisper over, wide eyes hoping to convey my sympathy in not only his loss, yet for my mentioning of this question as well.
"One way or another." He nods before eyes flicker up to stare into mine. I've shown you mine, now show me yours. Pain – your pain.
"I visit my," throat becoming thick and heavy, dry and hoarse as I force out the words. "My husband."
Levi nods his head before asking, "Was he a soldier?"
"No." The question catches me off guard, certainly not the typical response I get once revealing such a thing. Usual eyes turned down to the floor, discomfort and regret in asking me or worse – the pity, the overwhelming pity as if I've suddenly switched into something made of the most delicate of glass.
"Sorry for your loss." He quietly mumbles yet with eyes still held onto mine and I find the response to be disorientingly refreshing. Not mocking, not filled with pity or any of those things, really. Just a genuine expression of sorrow, of knowing – perhaps not that pain, yet another just as true.
"Thank you.' I quietly whisper back, "As I am for yours."
Another few moments of quietness, feeling relieved that I've done it – I've told him. The awkward smiles, the accidental stares are hopefully now understood that I'm not… heavens, I'm not flirting. Just a little out of touch in speaking with the opposite sex; in speaking with anyone, really.
With empty teacups, our legs pull up to go stand over by the blank wall, eyes staring out at it and attempting to imagine the scene I've described. "Just nothing to do with war." He mumbles with a tightness in his face which I couldn't begin to recognize. I lived through a few hellish moments of it; looks as though this man had lived a lifetime.
I hum in agreement before his head shifts over to stare at me. "Aren't you wondering which side I fought on?"
"No." The honesty in that word surprises me because I had been, mere moments ago I had been but now I'm simply not. Simply realizing that it doesn't really matter, any longer – does it? Clearing my throat. "When no one wins, had there ever truly been something divisive as sides?"
His eyes, his stare. It's entrancing. Not quite so clear as to easily read what he's thinking, but enough to rule out what he's not thinking, at least. He doesn't disagree – which is comforting. "It was nice meeting you, Lilette." Words I imagine are seldom to slip past his tongue.
A soft smile, "It was nice meeting you as well, Levi. Give me a few days to" wrap my head around all of this "sort out what I want it to look like and I'll stop by to begin sketching out the scene."
"I look forward to it." He nods, words even less spoken from what it seems and with that, I'm running back to my car in order to dodge the raindrops which have continued to fall. A quick glance back at the tiny shop as I settle into my car where I see he has begun to clean up, presumably ready to leave and go on with his day. His supposed day off, I feel a little bolt of regret at bothering him but – I don't know…
Dare I say he seemed to enjoy it a little. Dare I say I almost felt the same.
Nearly every waking moment over the next few days are spent exclusively in one of two ways: Wholeheartedly planning how I'll free myself from this obligation, how I need to distance myself from that man and his quaint little shop – or tirelessly sketching how I want the painting to unfold, how quickly is too quickly for me to show up again with stencils and brushes and paint.
After a not so long walk to the shop, because I truly do live close enough that it would be foolish to drive – even with a handful of supplies – I finally make my way to the door and notice the lights are not yet turned on. Shit, I'm too early.
Each passing moment provides another opportunity to flee and eventually, my anxiety gets the better of me which causes a quick spin around before I head off in the opposite direction, ready to return home and self-medicate with an earthy red sloshing around in one of those crystal glasses I pull out for the truly depressing occasions.
Unfortunately, rather than a clean getaway, I find myself running directly into someone's chest; containers of paint ready to spill fruitlessly on the ground as strong arms quickly reach out to somehow steady both myself and the items which topple in my arms. Eyes flicking up to find the very man I had been planning on running away from, standing there with an amused – or rather, bemused – stare in his eyes.
"Levi," I startle, unsure of how to explain my way out of this. Perhaps he'll be merciful and act as though he hadn't caught me in mid-flight. He's been a gentleman so far, surely I can count on him to –
"Were you running away?" With a slightly raised eyebrow, he stares. A slightly raised lip though too, which causes the whole thing to feel a little less cruel and more cheeky. He finds this amusing, the bastard.
"Uh," Ah, fuck. I've been a few times before swallowing the lump situated in my throat, I sheepishly grin. "I'm nervous. Haven't painted in a really long time and I've told you that I'm good… what if I'm not?"
His hands are still gripping hold of my arms, a fact which he and I suddenly become hyperaware of and so he quickly pulls back and has them fall at his side instead. "Do you enjoy painting?" His voice quietly asks.
"Yes," an involuntary smile as I remember how much joy it used to bring.
"Then it will be good." He moves forward, unlocking the door and stepping aside.
A deep breath. A tiny head nod and a sigh. "I'll do my best."
"Just paint." He lightly smiles while stepping in behind me, walking towards the counter in order to open the shop. "I can tell from your eyes, it's something you'll regret walking away from."
Tell from… my eyes? My damn heartbeat quickening again, trembling fingers as I walk towards the back of the shop to set up my few things. Mostly, I'll just be mapping out the outlines today, but I thought it would be beneficial to leave most of my supplies here to reduce the number of things which I drag back and forth.
Also, to force myself in returning…
"Regret it?" I call back while staring down at my paints; some of which I haven't opened for quite some time, yet thankfully sealed properly in such a way where I know the oils will blend and remain useable.
"That's the worst thing you can do with a life…" his voice nearly disappears as my ears strain to hear, turning to catch the look of melancholy splashed across his face. "Don't live like that." His eyes flick up to meet mine, "With regrets."
Not entirely sure what to say, I stare back while slowly nodding my head. Not entirely sure he's taken his own advice, from the look of his face – from the look of his shaky hands. "Okay…" I mumble while turning around to face the blank canvas before me. A light chuckle, "Remember that when you see the finished product – better not regret hiring me."
A brush of air from his breath against my cheek startles me, along with his soft and genuine chuckle which I hadn't realized is oh so close as suddenly he's placing a cup of tea down on the table before us. Arm nearly grazing mine as he pulls back, eyes meeting each other as he whispers, "With payment like this, how could I?"
Soft eyes and a warm smile sent my way. Warm eyes and a soft smile returned as I recognize how foreign this likely is for both of us – not entirely seeming like two people who do that often: smile.
Then, I get to work.