And... the story goes on with Sam the painter.
V. Painter
He'd been a musician, but now it was her turn, and she'd chosen to be a painter. She found the right colors and her fingers trailed his skin and remembered it and painted it, making out every curve, sketching his face in her mind. She drew his portrait and colored it, using the brushes at her disposal. She added a hint of darkness here and there, then switched to vivid colors, depicting his moods, the atmosphere in the room, the way the angles of his chin seemed to fall in and out of the light every time he moved.
She looked at him and lay at his side, taking in every detail. She observed, she watched the colors and watched the lines, how the darkness fell on his hair, how his eyes glinted with affection, how his fingers tightened around hers. She watched him being himself, because this was how she would paint him. Whether he chose to be a musician, or a poet, or a sculptor; whether they became magicians or jugglers, artists or dreamers. Whether he was awake or asleep, talking or thinking, looking at her hands or looking at her eyes; whether he made love to her or just held her− this was how she would remember him.
Tonight, she had a white canvas instead of a white board and a marker and a timeline. Tonight, she would design the painting and create the shapes, and draw the outlineof their lives. She'd make the frame and find the equations, the ones meant for them only, and she'd illustrate tonight with a large variety of tones, because the world outside was so grey and she wanted color. Color amongst the darkness. And she wanted the room to be light, a light that she'd paint to keep with them forever. Darkness would remain, buit it would be kept to one dark spot, a place where they could hide. The rest would be bathed in a warm, soothing hue.
She wouldn't try to paint the world that existed outside the room. They'd been in it together, left it together, and had been in it long enough to know that they'd rather be here− here with the colors and the lines, the shapes and the music, the magic dreams and the light and the shadows. She settled to reproducing his features. A brush on the canvas, followed by a knowing, understanding glance; a new line in her drawing, thick or thin, black or colored, followed by a brush of his lips on hers.
She'd paint him sitting, walking, standing; she'd paint him smiling, she'd paint him while he was lost in reverie. And she'd paint him without help, because she knew him by heart− she'd paint his eyes first, then his face, then the room around him. She'd draw his silhouette faultlessly, and then she'd perfect her work; she wouldn't miss an inch of his skin, wouldn't forget his slightly ruffled hair, his white shirt, his loosened tie. She'd feel his energy in the room and she'd draw that too, along with the slight smirk he'd be wearing if she asked him to pose. And above all, she'd draw the secrets he'd shown her− how he could become a magician and change the room and turn into a musician. She'd draw the notes he had once sung.
Then he would rise. He would contemplate the painting, and he'd be only half surprised by her talent. He would move again, and the light would change, and she'd go back to finessing her masterpiece, adding a touch here and a touch there, one final brush, one final detail. Finally, she would take a quill and sign the name she had taken upon entering this room, and with gravity, he would sign his name under hers, and they'd fulfill an unspoken, unwritten oath− that they would always be here for each other, in a room or a painting, that they'd forever be artists who dreamt and painted and lived and breathed together. He'd take her hand in his, stay at her side, and help her hang the painting on a wall that would now be like a mirror to the world they had created.
And then it would be perfect.