She got up to leave. Class was finally over. The world would become quiet once more, and she would retreat to her peaceful plane of existence, where things didn’t need the kind of tedious justification they did here. She put on her headphones, the voices became drowned out and the familiar pressure was like a reassurance that the truth which she held dear was intact.
It had been a long day, she had spent a majority of her time in between lectures in the library. That place never failed to make her uneasy. Somehow it seemed as though she might be swallowed by the memories left behind in the books if she were to be careless. She looked around the hall, what for, she wasn’t sure. Her eyes lingered on the high windows, where light was seeping in, the yellow of the afternoon getting mixed with the blue of the few rain clouds that tainted the sky. It was a beautiful day. The sky seemed quiescent, she decided.
Walking to the cafe before leaving had become habitual. The small light bulbs shone yellow through the windows of the shop, and the smell of coffee pulled her through the heavy door, the metal handle cold under her fingers. The barista took her order. One medium americano to go, no sugar. She watched as the shot of espresso was pulled from the machine with elegance reminiscent of her father’s cursive handwriting. She had always admired him for it, and he had been the catalyst of her own fascination with fountain pens. Her hands burned as she picked up the cup. Heading back out into the street, the cool weather of the early spring afternoon urged her to cling to her overcoat just a little tighter. The air smelled faintly of exhaust smoke, with a hint of rain from yesterday’s shower. It all whirled and mixed with the smell of coffee from her cup.
The park bench she found empty proved to be a nice spot to sit. She sent her location to ** and studied the leaves of a nearby tree, watched as the pigeons took off and landed, on par with the small chihuahua’s barks. She thought the dog would surely be audible from a great distance. Impressive, for such a small creature.
She didn’t expect him to come; it had been a long time. But she wanted to try, even if it was for the very last time. She started a timer. 90 minutes. 90 minutes for heartbreak. 90 minutes to freedom.
The lock beeped as she swiped her keycard, the old door opening with a pained creak. The studio seemed warmer than it ever had. Her canvas still sat on the easel, half-painted with a melancholic blue. Blue had something magical and something sullen, and more than anything, something honest. Honesty is what makes art -unadulterated, unbothered honesty- she was sure of it. He hadn’t come. She hadn’t expected him to. The instructor had welcomed her in the lobby, and wasn’t surprised when she asked to use the studio. “Such a busy-bee. Don’t you have anywhere else to be?”. The teasing hadn’t bothered her. Picking up her palette, she poured some linseed oil on the dried paint. She hated wasting. The blues and purples adorning the piece of wood looked sacred, somehow. There was something real here, she knew. Something honest. If living was to inhale, then she would exhale with her art, and become a part of the cycle which she so admired.
Her brushstrokes were rushed and painfully slow all at once. She felt pain, and ecstasy, and belonging, and strangeness. The canvas was her prey now. She would kill it, allow it to die for the sake of balance, and restore that which she had taken from the world. She would give back, now. The smell of paint would stick to her hair and skin, and she would wake up tomorrow, dazed, unsure of who she was or what she would do. But she would count on her resiliency, her art; she would count on her next breath.