THE PAINTING

The brush in his hand blurred the lines of a girl’s face on the canvas—subtle, soft strokes that met harmoniously.
His eyes followed the hand and brush as they conjured shapes from blank space: emerging eyes, nose, mouth, ears, a rounded chin, a heart-shaped face...
His hand moved the brush, accompanying the sonorous and loud tune on the record player—or what he could hear of it...
The room wasn’t large, and the small window wasn’t enough to cool it. It was a bit warm, which accentuated the smell of paint.
He kept moving, as if in delirium, transferring the image from his mind onto the canvas.
The image of the girl who had inhabited his mind since he saw her the first time.
*********
It was the very beginning of his first year of fine arts, and in that moment, a strong feeling sprang up in his heart.
In his twenty-two years, he had fallen in love a few times, but this time it was something different.
It was something he couldn’t explain—something that took over his mind, body, and soul.
He was sitting under a tree, looking at the landscape around him, when she appeared, walking along the pavement that led to one of the college buildings.
A shoulder bag hung at her hip, tapping gently against her thigh with each step.
Her long hair and light dress swayed in the wind, the fabric tracing the outline of her body as she moved—the curve of her waist, the gentle sway of her hips, her long legs carrying her forward with an effortless grace. The click of her heels against the pavement seemed to keep time with something in his own chest.
He was mesmerised by the sight. His eyes followed her until she disappeared into the building, the image of her walking away—the way the sunlight caught in her hair, the confident rhythm of her stride—burned into his memory.
She was a drama student, as he found out later.
She had lots of friends, and he had few. Most of the time, he was alone, always with drawing materials in his backpack, in case he found something that inspired him. She was indeed an inspiration...
*********
The face was starting to take colour: ivory skin with pale pink undertones, blue irises, red lips, light brown brows and lashes.
His forehead was sweating.
He stopped for a moment, took a few steps back, and looked attentively at what he was portraying.
Then he caught his breath again and put his eagerness on the brush, as if wanting to bring to life what he was painting.
The hair in golden-brown waves flowed down around her long neck and shoulders, framing her pretty face.
*********
He had seen her many times, occasionally looking at her intensely and memorising every detail of her face.
She was always surrounded by her classmates.
She didn’t seem to notice, or maybe she pretended not to. She didn’t look at him directly, but if she did, she would have seen in his eyes his feelings for her.
He wasn’t like the other boys, and if someday she realised he was there, she would first need to understand he and learn how to communicate with him.
If one day she came close to him, she would hear his heart beating for her...
Seeing her almost every day was a gift and a torture—especially when he saw her talking to another boy.
He would wish it were him.
At night, he would dream about her, kiss her, hold her, and wake up later sweaty, as if he’d shared torrid, intense moments—somehow real, the proof—a malformed circle in the sheets...
Afterwards, he would see her and think she was the most perfect girl in the world. If only she would look at he and realise his existence.
*********
The image that could now be seen on the canvas was hauntingly real.
The eyes seemed alive, and for the first time, they were staring at him. He was not an ugly boy; on the contrary, he was quite cute. Perhaps her portrait now perceived that.
He smiled at her, and in his reverie, she smiled back.
He went on stroking the canvas hectically, as if possessed. Below the neck and shoulders, he was creating the body he imagined there would be.
She was surging onto the canvas, with seductive contours that were concave and convex, irregular and perfect at the same time.
He glided the brush, as if walking softly over valleys and hills, and paused purposefully, lingering on a beautiful lawn...
All around him, a mess. There were tubes of paint scattered on a stained old table and multi-coloured splashes everywhere.
His body was wet with sweat, and his throat was so dry.
He seemed to like what he saw. He imagined her on the cinema screen, beauty shown in great proportion...
He would probably put the painting, after it was dry, in his room so that he could appreciate it before going to sleep...
After quenching his thirst, he desperately needed a shower.
He took off his clothes in the blink of an eye and let the water fall over him while thinking about the girl.
He closed his eyes, imagining her there with him.
As if his hands were hers, he started to lather himself with light movements, exploring every part of his body.
While one hand moved to more sensitive parts, the other began a more intense movement. He delighted in the sensation and enjoyed the ecstatic pleasure...
When he returned from the shower, passing by the studio, he was startled to see his mum standing there, looking at the canvas.
He felt embarrassed—as if she’d discovered his secret. Besides, the painting was too erotic: a young woman with an almost angelic face, her naked body on full display.
His mum turned to him. He was near the door, afraid to enter. She asked, gesturing at him, What is this?
Jittery, he tried to explain, signalling back, but she didn’t understand exactly what he was trying to say.
‘Girl... college... student...’
His mum realised then that her son liked that girl, but she was still surprised by the image there in front of her.
‘Have you known each other for long? Are you dating?’
He shook his head.
He had never dated anyone. Of this, she was sure, for she had always been very protective and knew everything that happened to him.
Well, that’s what she always thought...
Her son had grown up, and she hadn’t seen the time pass. Even though it was natural that he would respond to nature’s call, she was concerned that someone might hurt him.
But one day he would have to walk on his own.
He looked apprehensively at his mum, wishing she would leave.
‘Do you like her a lot?’
There was no need for him to answer. In his eyes, she could see that what he felt could be much more than a simple infatuation.
*********
A few weeks later, fate conspired in his favour. There were few students in the cafeteria.
She was chatting with a girl. No other students around her.
From a distance, his hearing wasn’t good, but he was an expert at reading lips.
They seemed to be discussing a study topic. The other girl opened a book and pointed to a page. She, his muse, began to read...
He recalled her voice from the few times she had passed very close to him—it was smooth, melodious...
At a given moment, she realised he was watching her reading the book.
He lowered his head in surprise. When he looked back in her direction, she was staring at him and smiled...
For the first time, she noticed him.
He tensed and managed to smile back shyly...
Perhaps there was a chance for him.
His heart leapt with hope.
He closed his eyes for a few seconds, imagining a scene where he and she would be together.
He would hear her say that she loved him...
A wave of sadness hit him with the thought that he might never be able to express his deep feelings for her.
No matter how much he wanted to, he would never be able to utter the words I love you to her. Yet he could find some comfort in expressing himself in other ways—where words would not be necessary, however, could translate to a smile, a glance, a gesture, and even a touch...
He held her gaze for one long, breathless moment.
Touching her had always been everything he ever wanted.