Outside the art gallery.

by: HiTanner85

1.

I gave up on good people, and settled for pansies and want to be heroes.I let go of all those precious moments. Good memories were twisted into such things, they didn't start off that way. .He said it was my minds subtle attempt at making life seem better than what it really was.I agreed. There were no good times, just good seconds, if even that.My smiles, laughter, singing, giggling, pleasurable moments could all be found into one tiny little notebook with life scribbled on the front. There were only three pages of good, countless pages of other. It was then he told me, “I think you’ve finally got it.”

Ewan Miller hardly smiled. He was tall with bright blonde hair, a strip of electric blue running down the side like a fallen lightening bolt. He had broad shoulders but a narrow view on life. He was the center of my universe.

I met Ewan at a small art show right outside of the city. He was a red head then, cherry red with the strangest blue eyes I had ever seen. He wore a dark gray business suit with a blue flower in his lapel. He stood out among the dull suburban mortals weaving in and out of their kind, sipping red whine and commenting on the promising new artists. He was staring straight at one painting most of the night, with an expression that I couldn’t even try to comprehend.

I strolled up to him. Where I got the nerve, I have no clue. I felt drawn to the boy. He glanced at me before turning his gaze back at the painting and sticking his hands deep in his pockets. I was intimidated and suddenly regretted taking those eight steps toward the cherry headed god.

“It’s ridiculous.” He stated firmly. I blinked.

“The painting, its stupid. Its contradictory.” He shook his head as if the artwork itself had rammed his head into a brick wall and now needed to have a good talking to. I tilted my head to see the work at a different angle. It was just a painting. I saw no stupidity, no angst, no love. I saw paint, maybe some charcoal, smudges.

“Why?” I raised my eyebrow toward him.

“What do you mean why? Look at it.” He motioned toward it.

“I am looking at it.” I stated.

“No, really look at it. It says right here, on this little plaque, the morning after a great love making.”

“Yeah.” I watched him, he was the real piece of work.

“This is not what you feel. These yellows, these pinks, these fresh greens. No, you feel something darker. Red, there should be more red because the man he’s married. He has three kids so there should be yellow, little bits of yellow. And the woman she’s a whore, more red, maybe some green because she’s jealous of his wife.” He went on like for what seemed like an eternity.

“It’s not always like that. You’re making a story in your head.” I mumbled.

“I don’t have to. No one is faithful anymore. There’s no need be. Every man cheats and most women do what they can to have some attention, no matter...”

“It’s not like that at all.” I interrupted. He jarred from his critical speech before staring straight at me with some sort of hate reflecting in those eyes. I shook my head and pointed at that painting.

“Look, I’ve never been one to argue with another about art. Simply because, I don’t usually get involved with it or anything around that. But the artist created this piece because this is how he saw it.”

“It’s not always how you see it.” I was obviously stupid, the glare he shot at me.

“It is when its your creation.” I stated flatly. I shrugged my shoulders and turned to leave.

“Wait, so you’re saying if I created something. It would have to be how I see it, because its rightfully mine?” He asked. I paused. I felt as if giving him a direct answer would be like selling my soul to the devil. I nodded anyway.

He looked away from me then, and I felt a whole rush of emotion pass through my ears. It was so fierce that I felt lightheaded afterwards, and took a step forward to steady myself. I was relieved the conversation was over but wanting him to come back to my world, if only for a second and then he turned. His eyes closing briefly as if slow motion had taken over our space for a brief moment.

“I’m Ewan.” He said, reaching out and taking my hand in his own.

“Alaina.” I replied.

And with that, somehow, my name was written in blood at the edge of a nonexistent contract. Ewan Miller was the devil, with a raging god complex.