Very Shot

By Darcy Prince

She sat softly on the garden bed that lingers at the edge of her house. Holding a book that spreads across her lap, head hung low, inducing herself with the words written on the page. As friends, couples, kids with fishing lines, that walk by, not giving her a second look. The park on the lake, during summer, gave the locals a natural source of entertainment. Wearing a white dress, her black hair hanged freely, down to her hips, legs laid to the side, back against the fence, that had roses intertwined with every pallet. Butterflies roamed the air. Honey in it’s aroma.

David sat across from her, a few metres away. The vine created enough distance away from her and close enough to see her fully. Wanting to, but never to dare to say hello. Just praying for an opportunity to say something to her. David, blue jeans, sneakers and classic white shirt. Knowing there’s nothing about his fashion is groundbreaking or innovating. David knew she often sat there, and at the same time, read to everytime she was. In his mind, he thought poetry, perhaps just some romantic novel, not knowing why, but knowing that it’s cliche.

Looking at hi watch. The mocking time hand told him, it’s time to go. In a puff of stinging disappointment. David stood, lit a smoke and walked back to his head. There is no results.

In anger, in his studio, David through black paint, over a blank canvas, in raging pollack brush strokes. Coming to an end. Grabbing the red to help give the black a deepening feature. And let the red dripped down over the black and named the painting, ‘Hell’. Not in words. In paint. An expression to his mood.

Admiring the paint, leaning on his supply desk, smoking. “Why is it, I put so much effort into my paintings? Not in others?” Sighs.

“Are you talking to me?” Bob replied.

David looks behind him. “No. Just thinking out loud.” David walks to the painting. Checking on the progress of the paint’s dryness. Holding onto any faith, that there are no changes left to be made. It’s nothing bu toil.

“Well David, I’m going to give you an answer anyway.”

“That will be right.” David said, under his breath.

“You’re happy to show. Just never happy to be apart. Too much of an individualist. Afraid to lose what you have made.” Bob went on talking. Moving sketches around on the ground. Giving a couple of comments. Standing now. “It’s that girl isn’t it?”

David turns to face him. “Yes.” Putting his smoke out. “I saw her again. She was…….”

Finishing his sentence. “Reading again and you think it’s either a romance novel or poetry. Did you say hello?”

“No. I’m afraid she’s dating someone.” David said, moving the painting off to the side.

“Told you what you can do, pretend to trip over in front of her. It will be a conversation starter.” Bob said, leaning on his open palms to the back of him. “Check out her wedding hand, ask her a question to who she lives with. It’s a stunning house. It’s not like it won’t be out of the ordinary.” Bob giggles. “I don’t think she dates with lower caste.”

David stands at a distance, but gives Bob a blank stare. Bob went silent. “Fine. Maybe a shot of whiskey will help.”

“You don’t drink.”

“Outside Xmas day, I don’t.”

A splendor in sand, it’s smiles from the water. Coming out of it, to wash himself off. David looks at the garden bed, where the unknown girl normally sits. Not there. David has been hanging around close to three hours and pondered on the paintings he needs to get down, avoid to sit in any resentment.

Dressing himself, smoking. Breathing in heavy sighs. Mastering the flustering butterflies that swam his insides. David looks behind him. And in a instant. Smiles from the purest parts of heaven floundered.

Turning to seer shock. Another man, walking in arm in arm with the unknown girl.