“You’re too beautiful for me to sketch. I was scared if I tried I couldn’t trust that I’d get the details right, the tone of your soft accent, the smile at the corner of your eyes.”
“That’s extravagant; you speak like such a polished artist.
Do you wanna know what my name means? You’ll probably love it being an artist and all…”
“You know it’s a shame,” he said silently questioning.
“What?” She was within her thoughts awestruck by his wide-eyed shy confidence. In his open spaced, dim art gallery, she felt comfortably alone. Conversations like these led only two ways: there was no road to stability here. She smiled, wrinkling her eyes and continued undaunted, “not really. Not for me. I can never understand how easily people of the art will insist that they can’t love just one person. ‘They can’t be confined, restricted’.
I think you must not love enough to hold yourself simply for that one person; even though you insist on passion and despite your stories of human longing. And, this saddens me; you can be so infatuated and love so deeply.. but only for 5 minutes. How can that be real? How can you tell me all that you’re telling me now, but move on tomorrow? It is in our nature to get bored, but it’s also incontrollable to love a person so much that life with someone else wouldn’t feel the same. It’s not about comparing; it’s the feeling without stopping the thoughts that come to mind.
I hope one day your art will let you see not to be infatuated by just anyone. I’m just anyone. To you I’ll always be.”
She kept his gaze, looking up at his scratched, blue and red graffiti canvas, the girl in the broken chair a semblance of her own dilemma, “that’s why it’s not ‘shame’, and I’m too cold to keep you in my heart like I suppose you will me.”