I had cleared the last of my tables for the night… I thought it would be at least. But then in he walked. I had seen him before at an art opening or something like that. He was an artist, a handsome artist. Maybe I had seen him at his opening. It occurred to me that it was very possible. His work hung in the café where I worked. It was not my favourite style. I liked abstract. He was almost harshly honest about the images he saw. His work was very important to him. How did I know? He carried his current piece with him everywhere in a black canvas satchel. It looked heavy on his shoulder.

“Welcome,” I said, “can I get anything for you?”

“Coffee,” he said lowering his burden to the floor, beside his chair, “and keep it coming.”

“Yes, sir,” I nodded.

Asshole. Are all artists drama queens?

I got him his coffee then asked my boss if I could go home. My replacement had not yet arrived so I was bound to serve the artist. Not that that was difficult; all I had to do was get his coffee every ten minutes. He stood there with his paints scattered all around him, painting the café. He got every bit of it down within an hour. From the light fixtures, to the Persian rugs, each detail was immortalized in oil.

Honestly? I found it extraordinary. His dedication was perfect. Sweat dripped from his face while his small fan brush lightened a chair’s arm. I wondered if he was tired. The answer was yes as he collapsed at his table and drained his coffee cup. I was right there to fill it again. His bleary eyes rose to mine and he thanked me. The words surprised me. I mumbled ‘you’re welcome.’ I quickly went to attend to other customers.

I could feel him watching me.

It burnt my back.

With a raging curiosity, I turned around.

He was painting again. He was painting a person. The person was carrying a tray… like mine.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said tartly from across the café.

“Yes, my dear?”

That caught me off guard.

“You, come here, now,” he snapped. I do not like being snapped at.

I saucily obeyed him, “what?”

“I want to paint you,” he said.

“Okay,” I heard the word before I could think. Oh, fuck. This was going to end badly.

Standing before his scrutinous eye was vastly uncomfortable. He watched my clothing closely, not adding any skin. I wondered at that. He began to sweat again. The paint dashed from the tube to the palette to the brush to the canvas. He painted furiously for a few minutes. He watched me closely. My replacement walked into the café. She smiled at me. I began to surrender my apron, but the artist yelled at me to keep still. My replacement, Janet, looked at the artist with disdain. Her little fists were clenching. Though Janet was a deathly thin thing she was very protective of me. I had always thought men to be the more protective, territorial sex. Not so with Janet. She could do substantial damage too. She had rescued me once from a fight with a cook.

“I think it’s time to go home,” she said to me, glaring at the artist.

“Yes,” he agreed, “you will need rest for the days ahead.”

I did not like the sound of that. Neither did Janet. I took off my apron and handed it to Janet. She put her hand on my shoulder as I passed. The artist was complaining that his coffee had gone cold. Janet brought him a fresh cup. He drank from it slowly, watching me leave.

“You,” he called after me, “what is your name?”

I turned around. Janet shook her head at me. I ignored her. What harm could my name do?

“James,” I said.