“Wow, it really is strong in here,” I commented as my lungs filled with the acrid stench of wet paint; I’d only been in the room for a handful of minutes and already there was a catch in my throat. I admired the painting Evie had been working on last time I visited and attempted to understand the hidden meaning. Under no definition of the word was I an artist. Maybe that’s why it looked mainly like a colony of birds had infested a cathedral. Perhaps the little spattering in the far corner was a fish, but it could just as easily be a tree or even a series of bells lined up together.
Chuckling, she waved a stained palette, dripping a few red drops onto the corner of her new work, and retorted, “I suppose you get used to it over time.” Her eyes twinkled as she brought her brush across the canvas, smearing the drips, and bit her lip. I watched as she glared at the blank spots and tilted her head slightly. It was a powerful stance; like she was going to war against the cotton fibres with only her brush for backup.
For a good half an hour, I leaned on Evie’s worktable as she layered colours, swatted at the canvas, and added fine pencil lines for haphazard definition. “So,” I began sheepishly, stepping out from behind the paint-splattered counter, “what’s this one supposed to be?”
When she turned to me, she had this wild look in her eyes that was just beyond anything I could describe. It was the madness of a scientist and the passion of a poet and the strength of a lion. It was a feeling more than I look. Grinning from ear to ear, she set the palette and brush precariously on the edge of a dried paint can. She took my hand, instantly turning my fingers deep, blood red, and pulled me to one side of the splotches. As she adjusted me, holding her body tight to mine, she whispered, “Can you see it now?”
Like I said, I am no artist. Like, at all, at all. I look at great pieces and think, “meh,” but when I looked from that spot at Evie’s unfinished canvas, I could see it. My throat caught again, but in a good way; in that way where you feel emotional tears coming and can just lean into it. Turning in her delicate grip, I pressed my lips on hers, pulling her into my arms and remained there for several minutes, enjoying the feeling.
When I finally broke away, I whispered, “I love you, too.”
Evie grinned, forced air out of her nostrils like she did when she laughed, and went back to the painting.
To this day, I couldn’t tell you how I knew what she’d meant. Looking from anywhere else in the world, the canvas was just a conglomerate of red stripes and drops and splashes with a few light grey lines scattered about. The yellow on the side was just a distraction, and the purple seemed to have no place at all. But it, all together and standing in Evie’s arms, was the epitome of passionate longing.