Artistic Licence

Two lone figures stood in the snow together, seemingly have polite conversation. But no, they were arguing. Though they wouldn't be recognizable or significantly important to anyone who walked by at the moment, they are the most important people in this story. Perhaps this was because they are the only people, or because when given the right to become a main character, anyone would seem more interesting.

Whatever the reason, they are here now being our paltry source of entertainment until you get fed up and toss this aside.

They were fighting. A skinny back woman with a small afro and an equally skinny British man with long hair and a stubbly bear that one would assume only came about from lack of grooming. And one would be correct. They were young starving artists, hippies in their own right and could hardly keep the loft they were sharing.

The two had met at Art College and had quickly become best friends. Though they were very close, and often agreed, there was one thing they didn't agree on.

Art. At least their own-to each their art was a lover, they agreed that classic rock was the best genre of music, that Chuck Berry was the really king of Rock and Roll, that Oscar Wilde was a revolutionary writer, that Sister Souljah was a legend and that Shakespeare's Othello wasn't up to standard. But each other's art…she was a playwright and he a musician; guitar versus pen. He wouldn't make it because his songs were too 1968, and she wouldn't because her plays were too sarcastic and the humour was dark. They said these things easily and coolly to each other, only to later regret, apologize and do the other a favour. He'd write her a song and she'd make him a monologue or poem.

One may say that such behaviour is destructive and counter-productive but it was truly an understanding. It was a coping mechanism. The cause of this was jealousy; they were jealous of the art. The truth was they were soul-mates. They both knew they were absolutely perfect for each other. There was only one thing that prevented.

The art.

Their art forms consumed them and isolated them; their undenied passion and obsession for their gift-or privileged curse-brought them together-and tore them apart.

Tonight he would play her a love song, and she would write him a sonnet.

A/N: I don't think this belongs in 'romance'. I would have put it in the 'love' section in poetry, but alas this is not in the least poetic.This was for an assignment in school. Normally I don't specify what race the characters are in one-shots like this...I prefer the reader to assume. It just came out this way, and I feel good. We needed more interracial stories anyway.