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It is silent and dark.
A small fire lit lamp sits next to me.
There is a tranquil feel in the air as I pick up a paintbrush and start to paint.
The lake really is beautiful at this time of night.
The gazebo I sit in I consider my own private hideaway, despite the various forms of graffiti that are always there to tell me otherwise. It’s absolutely beautiful, this gazebo. It sits on a small peninsula, surrounded by willow and an arrangement of various other blossoming plants. It overlooks the lake and to get to it you have to cross a small bridge. It really is my favourite place on earth.
Another brushstroke hits the canvas.
The picture in my head is starting to take shape. A beautiful maiden and her knight in shining armour stand in my gazebo, the light reflected off the water illuminating their faces as they pledge their eternal love to each other.
I take a look at my surroundings. The night has fully fallen and the park lights left unbroken are making the lake shimmer. The night is incredibly romantic, a half full moon in the sky and the stars twinkling at me seeming as if they agree.
My lamp goes out.
I smile as I relight it, choosing now to add a new colour to my palette.
Deep, turquoise blue. The colour of the maiden’s eyes. The colour of my eyes.
I continue to paint, hoping I am choosing the right colours in the dim light.
I suddenly hear a noise coming from behind me. A twig snaps and I can hear a voice singing.
Such a pure sound, as if from an angel. It rings out to me, making me close my eyes and just listen.
The voice gets closer. I snap out of my trance and freeze on the spot, paintbrush in hand. I’m too afraid to turn around and look at the owner of the voice for fear of what I will see.
The voice grows stronger before stopping suddenly as if surprised.
I gather all my courage and turn around.
A man in his early twenties stands across the bridge of the peninsula, a hot blush covering his face through the dark. It is hard to see exactly what he looks like due to the lack of proper light, but even in the dark, I can tell he’s beautiful.
He stares at me and my painting, his curiosity enflamed. He makes his way over, staring at me the whole time.
He comes into the light.
His hair is shoulder length and dirty blond. His eyes are the colour of honey. He is beautiful. Just like an angel. His cheeks are still dusted with pink as he stares at my work.
Only the first layer has been done yet, but I can tell he’s impressed.
He stares at it.
I stare at him.
“It’s beautiful,” he states in a soft voice, his eyes wide in the soft light.
I blush, looking down at my hands, feeling self-conscious in the presence of this beautiful man.
“Thankyou,” I whisper quietly, struggling to find anything else to say.
He smiles warmly before asking my name.
I hesitate in telling him, me nerves getting the better of me.
“Charlotte,” I say pathetically, my curly black hair falling into my eyes. For once I am grateful for my mass of curly hair. It is seemingly good for hiding one’s bad skin and freckles.
He grins at me as if he knows my secret and holds out his hand.
“Keira,” he tells me, “A pleasure to meet you, Charlotte.”
A small smile works its way onto my face as I take his hand and shake it. “A pleasure.”
He sits down on the bench that goes around the inside of the gazebo.
My heart starts to beat as I wash off the brush before dabbing a little bit of colour on it and painting again.
I can tell Keira wants to watch me paint. It’s like we have a secret agreement, the two of us.
I work away at the canvas, his eyes following my every stroke.
The picture becomes clearer with every brushstroke I make. The maiden in the arms of her knight, the knight dreaming of a better time.
The night wares on.
It has been hours since Keira stumbled upon me.
He is still sitting there, intrigued by my work. He seems to be lost in thought though not willing to find his way out.
He averts his eyes onto me. I don’t realise he is staring, but I can hear him move from the bench.
I can feel him behind me now. There is something mystical about him; I just wish I knew what.
I turn to face him.
He’s looking into my eyes, the emotion in his own unreadable.
He reaches for my chin and pulls me into a gentle, chaste, innocent kiss. My eyes close and I am instantly in love.
His lips leave mine and I open my eyes.
He’s gone.
My face is red as I get up and frantically search for him in the dark.
I call out for him. It’s like the night has swallowed him up. There isn’t a trace of him anywhere.
I find myself crying. My hands are shaking. I know I won’t paint again tonight. I just sit there, trying to remember everything he said, trying to get hidden meanings from it all but failing miserably.
An older woman and her dog walks past. The sun has risen.
I pack up my things and return home.
Life goes on.
Every night I return to the gazebo.
Every night, he isn’t there.
I always end up crying as I paint, wishing I could see him again.
After nights of crying, I am finally finished. The painting is complete.
A beautiful maiden with long, curly black hair and turquoise eyes, holing onto her knight in shining armour- a man in his early twenties with dirty blond hair and honey coloured eyes.
At least the maiden in the picture has found her knight.
 petitlapinu · Tue Nov 13, 2007 @ 06:30am · 0 Comments |
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