The Painter

“Hey, Riss, the usual?” Kristin, my daily barista, called to me over the counter of the Starbucks I’ve come to haunt almost daily as I pulled my sketchbook and pencils from the canvas bag that held my life in art supplies, and arranged them on the table.

“You got it,” I clicked my tongue and winked at her.

Unfortunately that is where I have found myself for the past week and a half staring at a blank sketchbook page and wondering what the hell I’m going to do with my life. For an up-and-coming artist like myself inspiration usually comes easy, ideas springing out at the sight of a crooked stop sign or graffiti on a bridge that would have my hands going for almost a month on a single idea alone. But for some blessed reason nothing, and I mean nothing, has sparked my creative tick for the past week. I’ve tried research, taking nature walks, going to the MET for any type of idea and still absolutely nothing captures my fascination like it used to. Because of this, I’ve found myself sitting in the corner of this over populated Starbucks swirling a steaming cup of hot chocolate that I never drink, hoping someone will pop out amongst the grey business suits and blank faces that usually hang about at this hour.

In anticipation of my ritual chocolate death I scanned the crowded coffee place for any newcomers this afternoon. Of course, only a few tourists and the usual dusting of grey suited business people littered the tight quarters so I turned my attention to the window where a new display had been set up for a sale on coffee beans in the wake of Valentine’s Day.

“One tall hot chocolate for you,” Kris placed the steaming cup beside my sketchbook and dusted her hands over the green apron she had to wear with her uniform. I thanked her, grabbing one of my pencils and twirling it as she nodded and returned to the cash register where the new Irish guy, Gerry, was having trouble.

I watched the little man struggle with the cash register until an unfamiliar sight graced the dreary coffee shop. From where I sat all I could really see was his wonderfully eccentric green Mohawk and studded biker jacket over a green and black plaid kilt. He tapped a black combat boot against the tile floor as his long fingers toyed with a silver ring on his right ring finger. Even though I couldn’t see his face I found myself fascinated by him as he turned to little Gerry and ordered a latte. As Kris turned to the machines to fix his drink the enigmatic newcomer glanced around the shop allowing me to finally catch a glimpse of his face. Close cut dark hair framed his Mohawk on each side, his tanned skin almost out of place in the pale-faced business district of the city. Silver studs decorated his ears and a silver post stuck out just below his bottom lip, a silver ball catching the artificial light of the shop. His green eyes found me studying him and I felt the heat on my face flush as he paid for his drink and made his way toward me.

“That’s quite a drawing you got there, Miss,” he said, making me jump.

For the first time I glanced down at my sketchbook and my face flamed at the drawing on the page. I didn’t recall ever picking up my pencil but there it was, a rough sketch of Mr. Mysterious leaning on the counter by the cash register.

“Oh gosh, I’m sorry,” my brain scattered in embarrassment.

A sunny smile spread across his face and he slid into the seat across from me, pulling the sketchbook across to him and studying my doodle. “Would you mind if I keep this? I’m Emmett by the way.”

“Um, sure, you can keep it,” I scrawled my signature across the bottom and dated it for him. “Marissa Priestly, nice to meet you.”

He took a sip of his latte, grabbing one of my pencils, and began to fill in the rest of the background with careful precision that I couldn’t help but stare. From that moment on I knew I’d found my inspiration, my newest fixation.

Everyday since then for a month we met in that same place drawing, talking and enjoying each other’s company.

His favorite color was green. His favorite beer was Amstel Light. He hated conformists and rarely came to this part of the city unless he wanted to find an office building or statue in the district that fit into his paintings. He sold his art in local galleries that often attracted the more eclectic audiences and he hated when people judged him for his appearance. His hair color changed daily from green to blue to purple because he hated looking the same twice in the same month. He showed me his work spread across buildings in murals, on canvas and graffiti on the side of warehouses.

“So what about you? Why are you looking for a spark of creativity in this dump?” Emmett turned the tables on me a week into our newfound friendship.

My heart stopped for a moment as the pain flooded back to me and I forced myself to keep a calm face. Shrugging, I stirred my hot chocolate, watching the swirls the straw left in the liquid and came to a decision. “My parents used to bring me here before work, when this place used to be a family owned coffee shop. I haven’t really had the heart to stop coming here.”

The concern on his face warmed me and he leaned forward as if trying to read my inner turmoil at the thought of my parents. “What happened to your parents?”

A question I still had no answer to. What did happen to my parents? One minute they’re smiling and clapping for me as I graduate high school, the next they’re yelling and screaming because I don’t want to go to business school, I want to go to art school and pursue a Fine Arts degree. Next thing I know I’m out of college with nothing but the clothes on my back trying to find some kind of internship to get my career started.

“They decided I didn’t exist because I didn’t want to take over the family business.”

His jaw dropped and he reached across the table to take my hand, “I’m sorry, Riss. I shouldn’t have pried.”

“No, it’s fine, I should have gotten over it, it shouldn’t bother me as much anymore but it still kinda hurts.”

Emmett nodded, tossing his crushed up napkin into an open trashcan. Kristin flashed him an annoyed glare as the napkin hit the rim and skidded to a stop at her feet. “I know how it feels, kind of,” he laughed nervously, “my dad doesn’t like that I’m focusing on art and not politics but he knows art is what I love so he just kind of goes with it.” We shared an awkward silence for a moment before he cracked open my sketchbook to distract my attention.

My artwork once again sprang to life with images and colors I’d never thought I could squeeze out of myself and we even began a collaborated commission for the coffee shop until the day exactly one month from our meeting he didn’t show up. I spent the entire day waiting for Emmett in the shop with Kristin and Gerry, eager to see what new hair color he’d come up with and wondering if he’d be covered in paint or not. I sat stirring my once again untouched hot chocolate and tapped my pencil against another blank sketchbook page wondering why he suddenly wasn’t there.

“I don’t think he’s coming today, Riss,” Gerry patted my shoulder as early evening rolled around and the traffic in the shop began to slow down.

“No, he’ll be here, he knows my work depends on him. I can’t paint without Emmett,” I said hearing the desperate tone in my voice and knowing that he wasn’t going to show up.

I’d been foolish in believing my new fixation would hang around, even if the painting we’d begun happened to be only half finished. My inspiration always had to shift when I least expected it. Emmett was just a passing punk boy and I was the foolish young artist who saw something interesting in him and tried to hold on to him as he tried to move forward with his career. Knowing me I’d dried him of everything creative and he disappeared to try and get some of his own inspiration back.

“Riss, we’re closing up,” Kristin leaned over my shoulder, her hand resting on the back of my chair as I gathered my once again empty sketchbook page. “Maybe he’ll show up tomorrow.”

I nodded and returned to my tiny apartment outside the city. I’d told myself those five little words everyday for almost two months. I spent every single day in that little Starbucks hoping to catch a glimpse of Emmett, my lost inspiration. My art stopped flowing and my sketchbook pages remained empty as I waited for some sign of Emmett. Every time I tried to paint or draw it would turn into a scribbled out dark spot on the white paper.

While sitting at one of my latest galleries I happened to overhear a group of middle-aged women staring at one of the only works I’d completed after Emmett disappeared. All three of them looked disappointed, their tones critical and disapproving as they looked at the splashes of dark paint on the canvas. I sat quietly in my corner, my handy sketchbook resting on my knee as I listened to their clipped conversation.

“Oh my,” a short grey haired woman leaned in close to the painting, the corners of her mouth turned down.

“Hmm, yes, this one shows considerable lack of attachment. Her other work is so passionate and full of life but this is hideous. I do hope her critics don’t see this one or they’d have a field day,” one of her taller friends replied with a shake of her head.

As the women walked away to another piece of work, their conversation dying away, I watched the people walking through the space covered with my art. I watched how they interacted with each other, their facial expressions as they viewed my work, how the sun filtered through the window, the rays glittering on the wood floors. I tried to sketch the scene, only really coming up with some stick figures in crookedly drawn room but it was something.

That night I sat with my canvas for hours listening to music and trying to get those women’s voices out of my head, their disappointed faces swirling through my consciousness as I dragged a piece of charcoal back and forth over the canvas. After erasing every attempt at a drawing on the canvas I finally gave up, grabbing a tube of paint and throwing it at the canvas. I let my anger control me as I grabbed more paint and splashed it across the white, the drips covering my floor and walls as I screamed in frustration.

“I give up,” I panted after an hour of destroying my clean canvas and dropped the tube of paint on the floor. Shuffling into my bedroom I collapsed on my bed and fell asleep, Emmett’s face mixing with the voices of those women as I drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

“Riss, hey, are you okay?” Gerry sat down across from me the next morning in the coffee shop, my hot chocolate sitting in the middle of the table as I stared into space.

“Fine.”

“You sure? I saw the review of your gallery in the paper this morning, it was kind of harsh.”

Slapping the newspaper on the table I indicated my knowledge of the small article with a shrug. “I know how to take harsh criticism, Gerry, it’s apart of what I do.”

The little man shook his head and stood up, “Okay, Riss, cheer up.” He patted me on the shoulder and returned to the cash register. I sighed, doodling the newspaper and coffee cup on the table in front of me to kill time. The empty feeling that Emmett once filled consumed me as I tried to recreate the still scene. I could hear the words from the article spinning through my mind and I pulled out the now dry canvas from my portfolio, ripping the article out of the newspaper and pasting it over the splashes of paint. It occurred to me that my anger itself had created this piece of work and I felt a sudden aching to finish this piece. Was I finally getting some sort of inspiration? How could I have created this piece without something to latch onto?

“Just go with it,” I muttered to myself and pulled out a piece of charcoal and began to sketch over the splatters.

“That’s some piece you’ve got there,” a voice I’d never thought I’d hear again broke my concentration. My heart stopped and I had to keep myself from knocking over my hot chocolate as I looked up into a face I’d given up on seeing. There was Emmett, smiling down at me with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket and a new nose ring glinting in the sunlight. Joy swept through me as I slowly stood up to greet him, still in shock that he was actually standing in front of me. I placed my hand on his shoulder just wanting to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating.

“Emmett…” I choked out as the shock wore off and the sadness and anger rushed up on me, cutting my voice off.

“Riss, are you alright?” he asked, those green eyes narrowed in concern.

“Am I alright? Are you kidding me?!” I pulled my hand from his shoulder and took a step back. “You disappear on me without a word for two months and all you have to say to me is ‘are you alright’?’!”

Silence descended upon the coffee shop at my outburst but I didn’t care, I had a right to be pissed off and no one was going to make me quiet down. I could feel the eyes of the grey suited patrons on my back and Emmett’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. If I hadn’t have felt so betrayed by his absence I would have felt sorry for him but the loneliness and abandonment that fuiled my temper refused to back down.

“You sweep in here all handsome and talented and sweep me off my feet and let me trust you and then you disappear off the face of the planet? No. No. I let myself trust you with everything, my art, my home, my life! How could you do that to me?”

“Riss, please,” he pleaded, placing his hands on my arms. I glared up at him, tempted to pull away from him when I noticed the dark circles under his eyes and the weary expression on his face.

My anger faltered and I tried my hardest to keep myself furious but his expression broke the fire. He pulled me into a hug, his lips brushing across my forehead before finding mine.

“I’m sorry I left when I did,” he muttered, guiding me into my seat and sitting across from me.

“Okay people, nothing to see here, go back to your business!” Kristin made her way across the shop of us with a peeved expression. “You have some nerve, Emmett,” she hissed, taking my hot chocolate off the table and moving away to throw it out.

Sighing, Emmett buried his head in his hands, “My mom died okay? I was gone because we had to figure out her will and organize the funeral. I’m sorry, Riss. I should have told you but it just…” he let his hands fall away from his face and I nodded, feeling his loneliness.

Before he could say anything else I rushed around the table and pulled him into a hug, burying my face in his chest to let him know that I was here for him and he didn’t have to suffer alone. He chuckled and wrapped his arms around me.

“It looks like you found your calling,” he indicated my half finished painting on the table. I stood up and looked at it with satisfaction.

“Indeed I did. I realized it’s really fun to paint when you’re pissed off. My art has been losing its passion lately and I just let my emotions go and I guess that’s what came out of it,” I shrugged. “So in a way your disappearance kind of helped me find what I’d been looking for since college.”

Shaking his head, Emmet stood up and grabbed the canvas off the table, holding it up to study the vibrant colors mingled with charcoal and newspaper clippings. He tilted his head to the side and nodded, tucking the painting under his arm and draping his free arm over my shoulders.

“What do you say we finish this masterpiece and then get cracking on the commission we left abandoned?”

Looking up at him I couldn’t help but smile as he guided me toward the door of the shop. His sunny grin made my heart skip and I leaned into him and nodded. In some cheesy way I felt content that I’d found my niche without him, but his presence after so long filled that gaping hole of loneliness left by my parents. He whistled happily as we crossed the street and made our way towards Central Park and I couldn’t help but smile.

“Sounds good, Em, Last one to my place has to pay for the paint,” I yanked my canvas from him and shot off though the park, laughing as he chased after me into the waning sunlight across the park.