The Artist OS

~ The Artist

I sit in the seat next to her; by my choice alone, although I don't think she knows that. I watch her, drawing a portrait of someone else, someone just in her mind. The slow, definite movements of her fingers and hand, as she glides the pencil across the paper, gracefully glides it, graceful like everything else she does. I watch her hands, the soft, cute hands she has, as she draws the eyes into the face on the white background. I feel elation throughout my being. I could just sit here, watching her draw, for hours, never getting bored of it, just watching her with that smile she always wears when doing her favorite activities. She looks up at me, that smile still on her face, and I feel a blush creeping onto my own face, but she doesn't seem to notice. She's glad to have an audience for her art, she's always downing herself though; she keeps saying how her art just isn't that good. I tell her she's wrong, she's a great artist, her work is excellent, but she never realizes what it is I'm really saying, what I long to say, need to say. That it's the artist I love, not just her art.