The Mind Picture

The Mind Picture

         I was taking a walk that day. My face was cold, and my breath came out like dragon smoke in the air. I let out slowly, watching it twist and snake away from me. I looked around, at people, at trees, searching for any inspiration, trying not to think about the blank canvas at home.
         I saw him then, sitting forward, arms propped on his knees. He was staring off into space, his eyes serious. The wind flitted playfully through his hair, like a coquette.
         My goodness, was he gorgeous. His features... I could feel myself blushing just looking at him.
         He glanced over at me,feeling my stare, and our eyes met. I smiled, but he just looked confused, like I had woken him up. I fixed the image in my head, and walked away.
         I went home and sat down at my easel. Picking up a pencil, I took a deep, calming breath, reviewed the picture in my head, and began to work. I may never see him again, but I will always remember. If my head forgets, the painting will remember.

-+-+-+-

         The boy is sitting by the fountain in the middle of the park. It is a crisp, chill day, but his brown jacket is unbuttoned and his knit toque is in his hands, the general disarray of his fluffy brown hair the only evidence that it was once on his head. He is paying little attention to the people who walk past him. His grey eyes gaze off into space, not looking at anything, and he lets his mind drift as he listens to the sounds around him: the fountain, the dead leaves rustling, the traffic nearby.
         He comes back to reality; something is different, not right. One of the people, the general entity that he has separated himself from, has stopped and is looking at him. It is a young woman, no older than he, standing straight and confident as others pass. She scrutinizes him, a small smile on her face, and he waits. Then she lifts up her fingers to frame brown eyes, as if she was holding up a camera. She lowers her index finger, saying “click.” Then lowers her hands, smiles at the boy, turns, and continues walking. The young man looks after her, watching the back of her curly haired head till it disappeared from view. He attempts to return to his non-thought state, but it is no use. He gets up and walks through the park, back towards the bus stop.
         He thinks about the girl on and off all day. Who was she? He didn’t recognize her. What did she look like again? He thinks back: Dark hair, curly, wearing a red coat. Why did she stop? Why did she pretend to take a picture? He doesn’t know. He eats dinner and fills his mind with the Simpsons and Family Guy. He forgets about the girl…
         Till the next day. When he wakes up, she is the first thing he thinks about. All the questions he asked himself before he asks again. His answers today aren’t any better than the ones yesterday.
         Neither are the ones from the next week.
Or the next month.
         Finally he manages to stop thinking about it. He goes back to life as normal, watching the world. At school, in the middle of geography, he is bored as usual, and his eyes go to looking. The punk kid has a skull shaved on his head. A cheerleader is wearing jeans so low her crack is showing. The quiet girl has taken off her shoes and is sitting cross legged in her chair. On the walls, pictures of contour maps and aerial maps and mountains. On the floor…a piece of paper. He leans down and picks it up. “Young eyes” it says in bold Arial. “A tribute to the vision of young artists. DeHardin gallery, 9283 Broadmore, 4pm-7pm Mon/22-Fri/26.” The boy reads it over twice, then sticks it in his pocket. When the bell rings, he is first out the door.
         He hops the bus to Broadmore and is there by 4:38. He gets off a block from the gallery and walks the rest of the way. DeHardin is a big, steel building with all kinds of strange shapes and lines in the walls. He opens the door, steps inside, and pays for a pass. Then he turns from the front desk and heads down the hall into the gallery room.
         Most of the art is quite good. There is an interesting portrait done by an eight year old. A strange sculpture that looked sort of like an Egyptian god, a painting of a man sailing on the ocean with a petal for a sail.
         Then he saw it. It was a large painting of a boy sitting on the edge of a stone fountain, his brown jacket open, his elbows on his knees, his hands clutching a blue knit hat. Pale grey eyes, slightly confused, slightly suspicious, and very serious stare into his own, and he finally understands why that picture had been taken. He looks at the information beside it on the wall. “A study in beautiful. Oil on canvas. By Kendall Fryling.” Beautiful? He looks at it again.
          “Do you like it?” he hears a voice behind him ask. He turns to see the girl standing there, brown eyes frankly meeting his. “What do you think?”
“It’s beautiful.” He whispers reverently. “Thank you.”
          The girl laughed. “No, thank you. I’m Kendall, and you’re my anonymous model.”
They shake hands. “I’m Graham.” He says, still slightly shocked. The girl, Kendall, appears to him like one of the paintings, and he studies her as such. Her black curling hair that fluffs from her head and down past her shoulders in frazzled ringlets, the warm sienna eyes, the white blouse that drapes-no he wouldn’t think about how it drapes. The red wool coat tied around her waist, the matching beret stuffed carelessly in-between it and her hip. He knows he is staring, but notices that she doesn’t seem to care, because she is staring at him as well, a serious look on her face. She notices his look finally and grins. “I though I remembered pretty well, but there are still so many things I missed. This mole, right there.” She puts out a hand and taps a finger to the mole above his eyebrow. “I would have included that.”
          Graham can’t think of anything to say. He can’t not say something, she’ll leave. He casts around then blurts. “Would you like to get a cup of coffee?”
         She tilts her head. “No, but I’d go for some chai tea. Coffee makes me all spastic. Do you mind waiting till this is over?”
Graham shakes his head and manages to return a smile before going over to a bench and shakily sitting down. He sits watching as Kendall stands talking to two older ladies and a man in his thirties, gesturing animatedly. She seems to glow with a light that illuminates only her, making the rest of the world seem dull in comparison. He doesn’t notice time go by, but soon the exhibit lights are turned off and people make their hushed way out the doors. He looks around for Kendall, who had disappeared, and sees her over by the main reception desk, talking to an official looking woman and pulling he coat on. She turns away finally, throwing a painted canvas bag over her shoulder and sliding her toque over her head. She smiles at him and says lightly “shall we be off then?”
         The coffee shop that they go to is just a block away. As they walk, Kendall leads them in a dizzying conversation about school and art and family as if she has to acquaint the two of them fully before they reach the shop. The air is chill, and as she chatters, her breath comes out as steam, curling upward from her lips, and Graham has to look away. He answers her questions without looking at her.
         They reach the blue doors of Spider’s Parlor. Graham holds the door open for Kendall and she breezes inside as if she’s come home for the holiday. The staff, a girl and boy in their mid teens, only a few years younger then Graham and Kendall, greet her as if she has as well, and give them their drinks half price. Kendall takes her tall glass of chai over to the huge overstuffed loveseat by the window. Graham follows with his own. He has never tried Chai before, but being with Kendall has made him feel bold. He sits beside her and takes a sip. “This is good stuff.” He exclaims, taking another sip. Kendall elbows him. “Told ya.”
         Kendall and he continue their conversation. This time Graham ventures a bit more inquiry of his own. “Why did you take my picture?” he asks. “How could you remember an air picture well enough to paint from it in the first place?”
         Kendall sips at her tea thoughtfully, and then answers. “I took the picture because you looked beautiful. You are beautiful you know. Most boys don’t like to be told that, they think it’s girly, but really it’s just true. Some things are more aesthetically pleasing than others, and that includes certain men. I’m lucky enough to have a photographic memory, so when I see one of those things, I take a mind picture” she raises her hands as if she held an invisible camera, demonstrating, “so that I can remember it for later.”
         “Wow.” Graham says, “I wish I could do that.” Unsure how to reply to the other part of what she said, he ignores the fact that she just told him he is beautiful. Part of him wants to tell her that she is beautiful too, but that part of his brain fumbles, not sure how to phrase what he is thinking, and his more sensible, cowardly self moves the conversation on to other things.
         Too soon, their tea is gone. The sky is dark now, and the street lit with the warm glow of lamps far ahead. The walk out of the store and then look at each other, unsure of what comes next. “Do you have time to walk around for a bit?” Kendall finally asks the stranded Graham, and he nods eagerly. They wander, talking about nothing in particular, over to a nearby park and around the fountain at it’s center. Kendall hops up on its side and walks the ledge slowly, hands in her pockets. At one point she wobbles a little, and Graham reaches out to keep her from falling as she pulls her arms free and uses them to steady herself, one hand on his shoulder. She keeps it there as she walks the entire circumference of the fountain, and then lowers herself till she is sitting. Graham sits down beside her. “Kendall,” he asks, “why are we here?”
         She laughs happily at his question. “Don’t you think that question is better suited for a philosopher than a painter?”
         “That’s not what I meant. Why are we sitting here together? Why did you go get coffee with me and ask me for a walk?”
         She looks at him curiously. “Because I wanted to.”
Graham runs his hand through his hair in frustration. “Well, yeah, but didn’t you think that it might be unsafe? You don’t really know me. I could be a psycho or a rapist, but you go out for coffee with me and for a walk, alone and at night. How did you know it was alright to do?”
         “Well, I had a feeling. I spent three weeks painting you. You have a good face, good eyes. I trust you.”
         “But why Kendall? Just because a person looks trustworthy doesn’t mean they are!”
         “Because you are, that’s why! I just know.” She snaps testily. After a moment of silence she adds more quietly “besides, people who aren’t trustworthy spend their time trying to gain your trust, not trying to figure out why you do and telling you that you shouldn’t.”
         Graham sighs and gives up in the face of her absurd logic. “Fine. Go ahead and trust me. But be careful. Not all us beautiful people are nice. Someone might take advantage.”
         Kendall giggles and pokes him. “Thanks for the advice Mr. Beautiful.” She turns and looks him in the eye, measuringly. His heart beats faster, but he manages to keep his face neutral. “Graham, can I ask you something?” she inquires softly. Graham nods.
         “If I want you to kiss me just because I’ve never been kissed before, and not because I want a relationship, is that selfish?” Graham’s eyes sink shut a moment as he feels his heart lurch out of his chest, certain that if he opened them that he would see it hopping away. He opens them again to see Kendall’s own on his face. He thinks a moment, unsure how to reply. “Yeah, a bit. But Kendall?” he asks as she looks away, her face turning red. “If I want to kiss you because I’m afraid I’ll never get a chance to again, does that make me a coward?” He stares at her profile as she smiles a little smile and replies. “Maybe just a little. Do you mind much?”
         “Nah.” Graham says nonchalantly, defying his actual tenseness. “Do you mind being a bit selfish?”
         Kendall looks up at him and shakes her head. Graham laughs. “This is definitely the weirdest day I’ve ever had.” He says. He puts a hand behind her head, bends down and kisses her.
         When they pull apart, he looks into Kendall’s chagrined face, her eyes smiling wryly into his own. “What is it?”
         She answers him, her voice barely hinting at a laugh. “Graham, if I change my mind about wanting a relationship after one kiss, does that make me fickle?”