PAINTING LIFE


Malcolm studied the canvas for a few seconds longer, squinting at the dark shades his brush  just made. He took a step back to peer at his painting once more. Frowning, he wondered what  was missing in the portrait that captured her lean, oval face and long black hair. 

He had done well with his oil paintings, selling his work through small galleries and doing  commission work. But it wasn’t the money that drove him but the passion of painting. His  friends alternated between being amused and astonished at the way he would paint. He would rest his chin in his hand as he peered at his subject and at the canvas, moving between them for long  minutes. Suddenly, he would attack with his brush with quick, deft strokes. In a flurry of hand  movements, his blond-dyed hair tossing about, he formed a portrait. Sometimes he would stop  and think for a few more minutes before adding the final details, details that others didn’t always  understand. “It is to capture their life,” he would respond to their inquiries without explaining  further what he really meant. 

Malcolm had his share of short-term partners, but rarely would they be more than a passing  interest. The women were attracted to his tall, lean frame and his sudden bursts of creativity. Unfortunately, he always seemed to be looking for the one that could hold his attention after he  painted them. 

He now stared at his latest creation on the canvas. The woman’s lips were full but without a  hint of a smile, and her eyes were large and lustful. There was, also, hunger in the dark,  brown eyes for something more. What was causing him so much trouble was he had to paint her  from memory, without the benefit of her sitting to pose for him. 

He became instantly aware of her one night at Tappa’s, a small wine bar hidden just off the  main street at the city’s trendy shopping district. She sat alone on the backless bar stool as she  faced the window, watching outside with a loneliness that made others turn away. The bartender  brought her a second glass of red wine without asking, took the bill lying by the first empty glass  and walked away. The bartender noticed he was staring and gave a small shrug, conveying the  message she didn’t know about her either. 

Like a moth to a flame, he returned to Tappa’s several times over the weeks, hoping to  understand what intrigued him about her. She might have been beautiful at one time, he  considered, with her slim figure and full bust. Her hair was full and thick and her face had a  classic Italian look to it. But it was her complexion that hid away her beauty, her face peppered  with small red blemishes that made her skin look textured like rough sandpaper. 

He was careful in his observations, keeping a small pad for an occasional sketch hidden  behind a book he pretended to read. He began to see a pattern with her schedule. On random Wednesday or the occasional Thursday days, she would return to the bar around ten o’clock after  the main crowd had left. She would always sit at a spot that gave her privacy, preferring the edge  of the window, sitting with her back to the rest of the patrons. The bar tender would rarely speak  with her, bringing her a glass of wine after she sat down. 

Malcolm understood in part her desire to be alone, at one time being a recluse before  realizing there were benefits to human companionship. Now, he was nearing the end of the  portrait of her and he knew he had to return again to Tappa’s to find what the painting was  missing. He had eliminated the flaws on her skin and her true beauty came through under the  guidance of his hands, revealing she might have been a gorgeous woman if only she would  smile.

The night was sticky and warm, and the fifteen-minute walk to Tappa’s was enough to bring a  gleaming sweat to his forehead. The bar was busier than usual, and he took a seat near the side  wall where he could observe the window seating. Ten minutes passed as he sipped the cold glass  of Riesling when a group of three young women sat down by the window. 

Malcolm clinched his jaw, annoyed they had taken her seat. He glared at them, trying to get  them to move when she entered the bar. She glanced around the bar and pursed her lips. He tried  to watch without directly looking at her and saw the long hesitation before she turned toward him, taking a chair at an adjacent table. 

He released his breath, waiting for insight that would tell him what would make her come  alive for him in his painting. 

Without turning to look at him, she spoke in a quiet soft voice, “Why do you stare at me so?  Does my ugliness fascinate you?” 

He almost gasped and then recovered. “It is neither beauty nor ugliness that fascinates me  about you. I find it is your essence that intrigues me. I am a painter of people, and you have a  quality I cannot describe.” He swallowed. “I am sorry if I have offended you for staring. I mean  no harm.” 

She nodded and turned towards him. “Are you trying to paint me then?” 

“I am. I have started your painting but cannot complete it. I hope you don’t mind that I used  you in the painting.” He pursed his lips and took a quick swallow of his wine. She stood and moved to his table. “My name is Elena. Why did you choose me to paint?” “Malcolm. Because when I first saw you, I knew you have a quality of life that I cannot  explain and that makes you exceptional.” He passed over the pad with her sketches in it. “Here.  These are the outlines I am using of you.” 

Her eyes widened as she looked at the pad. “My face. You removed the blemishes.” She  looked up at him. 

“They didn’t belong. I try to capture the subject’s life quality, what makes them  exceptional.” 

“Life quality?” She gave a small smile. “I wouldn’t use that to describe me, but perhaps you are  on the right track.” 

They sat in silence, sipping on wine. Malcolm felt relaxed as he gazed at her. “May I ask  what you do?” 

“Do you think knowing would help you with whatever makes me exceptional?” “Maybe, but it was more important just to hear you speak. When people speak, their faces  change expressions. Sometimes that helps me to learn more about them.” 

“I don’t work as you would call it. I have enough wealth to do as I please. I like to play  music. I have a piano and even do a bit of composing. I guess you can say we are both artists.”  She gave a smile. 

“You come to this bar often.” 

“I suppose I am a creature of habit. I have my needs, too.” She looked like she was sharing a  private joke with him. 

“So is it just wine and music that pull your interests?” 

“I have appreciation for other things as well.” 

“I’m sure you do.” He took another drink of his wine, draining the glass. He signalled the  bartender to bring two more glasses. “May I ask a personal question?” 

“My face?” 

He nodded.

“Well, I usually tell people I am a vampire and one night I was caught in the morning sun for  a few seconds leaving me like this.” She took a drink of her wine as she looked at him. “The other explanation is that I was burned in a fire and the insurance company had to pay me a lot of  money. Either explanation means I don’t have to work for a living.” 

“Interesting. I suppose either could be the truth. Which one is the truth?” He grinned at her. Elena stood. “Aren’t you worried that the ugly woman really is a vampire?” He stared at her. “No, because there isn’t an ugly woman in front of me. My paintings are  

more than colour on a canvas and there is more to you than just what people first see. I would like to know you better.” 

For a moment, he thought she would cry as her lower lip trembled and then she turned and  left the bar. 

He sighed, hoping he hadn’t scared her away for good. He paid for the wine and left, hands  stuck in his pockets as he walked. He went past his apartment, feeling too agitated to go home  yet, reaching a small footbridge that crossed a ravine. He stopped in the middle, looking down  into the dark green growth, when he felt strong fingers grip his arm. He jumped as he tried to  turn toward his attacker. 

“Do you still want to know whether I’m a vampire or not?” 

Elena’s hold was tight, and he struggled to face her. He fought to keep his head clear from  her gaze that seemed to have a gold flicker to them. “Only if you want to tell me the truth.” She gave a small laugh. “Do you know what I really want from you?” 

“What?” 

“This.” 

He felt her mouth on his neck, a small pinch as she hesitated, but then more kisses as she  made her way up to his mouth. He returned her kisses, their open mouths locked together as their  fingers clutched at their bodies. They slowly tumbled to the wood walkway, pushing away  clothing as they wrestled for position. She climbed on top of him, impaling herself on him. 

He heard her sob out loud and collapse on his chest. She kissed him on his lips and stood.  “Thank you for what you said. Perhaps we shall meet again.” She dressed quickly and hurried  away. 

He scrambled to pull his jeans on and hurried after her but to no avail. He made a slow  journey back to his apartment. The painting was waiting for him and he walked around it. “So  close,” he mumbled. “So close to finishing it.” He went to the bathroom, splashing his face with  cold water. He looked into the mirror and saw two red dimples on his neck. The skin wasn’t  broken but showed the marks that something small had pressed hard there. His eyes widened and 

he hurried back to the painting. 

He added a few strokes of red paint and paused. He grinned. “I got you now.”
****

The young blonde woman looked over at the couple sitting at the table in the corner as the  bartender brought her a glass. “Unusual looking couple.” 

The bartender shrugged. “They met here a long time ago.” 

The blonde stared a moment longer. “I wonder what he sees in her.” 

“I don’t know, but who understands love? Theirs seems to be rather enduring.”

The End