Painter

The brush is wide and coarse, and with it he stabs over and over again at the canvas. The smell of oil permeates this room, even with the windows allowing the breeze to waft through. He's adding what I can only describe as the color of orange sorbet, and the beginnings of a sunrise becomes apparent. The sound it makes is sort of like tapping a bongo drum with sandpaper, and it's sometimes rhythmic with the music keeping time from his playlist.

I watch, enthralled by his technique, but more so by the way his body reacts to each movement. It's a critical squint of his light eyes, and the following furrow of blond brows that tells me he's focused. It's the tilt of his head as he pauses, hoping to see things from a fresh and new angle. It's the splatter-painted hand on his hip as he puts the brush down, and the blond hair he pushes out of his eyes as he steps back. And to think, he does this to relax.

In this room, he looks like a rebel artist, energetic and slightly neurotic. The only thing living in here is atop his easel as he hums and moves like a parasitic creative host. As he notices my presence though, the neurosis subsides and he snaps back to being just mine. A genuine smile appears at his mouth and in his eyes; we share this creative contentment of life.