A short story based off a dream I had last night.
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I was working –artistically. I was in my print shop and just kind of messing around I guess. And he caught me looking. You know, that little sneak-a-peek glance sideways just to drink in a handsome face. And he caught me. I blushed rose red, as only a strawberry honey-blond can, and went back to paying attention to what I was doing. I daringly peeked again, only just past my peripheral, so I wouldn’t have to move my head too much. And he had a grin playing at the corner of his mouth; he caught me again! Oh well. I like a good blush every now and again. I felt his glance and looked up. Eye contact. Hold. He was openly smiling at me, appreciation etched in his rugged features. And it was stunning. I caught my breath sharply –blushing a bit again, looked back down and couldn’t help but smile to myself. I could have sworn I heard a small chuckle, but I wasn’t too sure. I looked up again and grinned sheepishly, then went back to what I was doing.
After that he came regularly to the shop, would wade through the photos and prints, always stopping to admire one here or there; always my favorites too. If there’s one thing I’ve learned as an artist: no one appreciates my favorites like I do. Except him. He definitely appreciated them. Over the weeks I definitely grew quite a crush on him. He’d ask me questions about the photos upon which he’d stop to look. Eventually we conversed about life in general, the things we each cared for or didn’t particularly enjoy, like vivid color and a simplistic nature versus watching a movie late at night alone and chaos. We became friends, though I never saw him outside the shop.
I learned of his death a few months later. He had died a hero, taken by the sea. The child he’d rescued was saved by the life-vest she was made to put on, while my friend just could not tread any longer. I had last seen him the Friday before that fateful Saturday, and I hadn’t been back in the shop since. Closed for mourning. I mourned what never was, what couldn’t be, what wasn’t allowed to occur.
The following Friday I opened up and went straight to my personal work-room. I gasped at the transformation. There were photos on the walls, beautiful photos. The kind I appreciated. And all had strings tied to a peg underneath to another photo… each with words underneath. I went to the photo with the 1 by it and began a short journey, unraveling the mystery of how a man like he asks a woman on a date.
I went out to the main room, a tear trail on my cheek, but I had no desire to wipe it away. Let them see.
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