The Painting of a Young Couple

2389 words. A young, struggling artist paints a troubled couple. He leaves an impact more important than the money he could have earned.

For three quarters of the year I lived in the city, I worked two part-time jobs. I was a cashier at a grocery store by day and a fast food cook by night. I only needed one job for the routine of going to work and I needed neither job for the money, my father having made his fortune in a large computer company, and then having the misfortune of a heart attack at the age of forty-seven. I was twenty-three at the time, finished with the art school he disapproved of, and ready to be as I, and not he, had envisioned.

Of course, being ready is not the same as being. I thought I would be an artist full-time, selling my art as quickly as I could produce it. Word would spread, and people from far away would come to buy my art. Perhaps some of it would one day end up in a museum. I thought that after five years of a life devoted to art, I'd be one of the country's young and rising artists.

Four years later, and I'm informing a middle-aged man of Foodmart's upcoming sales.

"Why'dya tell me bout the deals just as I'm leavin?" He asked. His combover was dirty and stiff, and his extra-large clothes could hardly hold him.

"These sales are next week, sir," I said, smiling at him.

"Useless twenty-something," He grumbled under his breath. Sometimes, exceptional hearing is a curse. As he left, he tripped and fell forward onto his groceries. He got up, grabbed both bags, and marched forward without even looking around for help. I only felt sorry for the two cartons of eggs he bought. He behaved like the cartoons I had studied during my brief foray into animation.

I checked my watch. It was 3:35, five minutes past the end of my shift. There was no one in line for my checkout station, so I went to see if Greg was in the break room.

I found Greg sitting on an old office chair in the small break room, drinking root beer. He was talking with Seth when I interrupted. I cleared my throat.

Seth turned toward me and said, "Hey, Noah! You working a double shift today?"

"No," I said, "I just finished work for the day." Both Seth and Greg turned to the clock on the wall. That clock read 3:15.

"You still have fifteen minutes left!" Said Greg. I looked at my watch again. It was closer to 3:40 now.

"Maybe the clock is broken," I said.

"Okay, wait just a moment," said Greg, digging into his pocket. He brought out his phone, looked at it, and stood up. "We're nearly ten minutes past our shift!" He said. Seth stood up and we all went to punch in/punch out of work.

I didn't like being at my apartment. My many paintings created clutter everywhere, yet I was unable to part with any of them. I thought they were beautiful, even if no one else appreciated them. The paintings also reminded me that my dad was right; going into the arts would be a failure and I'd never be able to make it on my own. I guess that's why I took two jobs. I would prove that I really could make it on my own as an art student.

I looked over the paintings again. Maybe the two jobs were just an excuse to get out of this apartment.

I took a nap and woke up at about seven o'clock. I was struck with the urge to paint something, but didn't know what to paint. I put my painting supplies in a duffel bag and walked to the park.

The sun was close to the horizon and would be setting soon. I set my canvas on my easel and waited.

A few people passed by. Just as the sun began to set, a couple walked toward me. The man seemed to be no older than twenty-five, and the woman looked a little younger than him. I thought they were going to walk past me, but they walked right up to me and stopped.

"Would you paint us in front of the sunset?" He asked. I tried to hide my surprise. Me? Mistaken for a professional artist? Yes, sometimes artists would paint people at this park, but it was always by reservation.

I accepted their offer before considering wether it was ethical to pretend I did this for a living. I estimated it would be between fifteen and twenty minutes before the best time to paint the sunset itself, so I needed to paint the couple quickly. I told them where to stand, and set to work.

The woman was wearing a white shirt that was in the fashion of the time and fit her beautifully. The man was wearing far plainer clothes. I didn't bother telling them that I could hear what they were saying.

"Did you buy that shirt just to be painted in it?" Asked the man.

"No, I just wanted something nice to wear."

"I like how you look in your tee shirts and jeans. You look very nice in them."

"I wanted something fancy. For special occasions."

"I hope it's special to you. I saw the receipt that you brought home. I bet that this painting is less expensive. The meal sure was."

"I bought this with money from my job, and you chose to pay for the food."

"Honey, we share a home, a bed, and a bank account. My money isn't mine, and yours isn't yours; it's ours. That means we make financial decisions together, which means neither of us can go off and buy something expensive without asking the other person first. I paid for the meal because that's what a gentleman does: he takes care of his lady. I thought that's what you told me you wanted, a gentleman; or am I mistaken?"

The woman was quiet for a time

"Honey, I love you," said the man, "but we just can't afford things like this. I know that you took the tags off, so you can't return it, but in the future, please be more careful with our money." He paused for a beat. "Hannah, I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings. That wasn't my intention. Will you forgive me?"

Hannah looked up at him. "Of course I do, Mike." She kissed him, then they went back into their poses. Her smile no longer reached her eyes.

I decided that I would idealize Hannah's figure, especially her arms and torso. I would make the brightness of her shirt rival that of the sun. Actually, the sun would end up exactly behind her. Her shirt would be the center of the sunset's rays. Mike, on the other hand, would be painted as I saw him.

I finished the rough painting of the couple right on time. I would paint the beautiful sunset and the beautiful trees, then I would add fine details to the couple. I would clean up the lines, add a few last details, and present it to them, perhaps complementing the woman's shirt. I would ask for modest payment, and leave the park as a professional artist.

The man made a few noises of discomfort before the woman asked him what was wrong. "Oh nothing, Honey," he said, "it's just - are you sure it's not returnable?"

"I'm pretty sure"

"Okay then"

"What? Don't you like it?"

"Oh, the shirt itself is fine. It's just ... I don't know." He sighed and looked away a little.

"What is it? What's wrong?" She asked.

"It's just- maybe you should have gone up a size or two."

"This was a medium. I always get medium."

"Well, maybe the way this fancy shirt is cut makes it fit smaller women better."

"Nah. They wouldn't just sell to thin women. They wouldn't make as much money."

"With how much that shirt cost? Honey, healthy food is expensive. Gym memberships are expensive. Plastic surgery is expensive. Cosmetics are expensive. These fancy clothes were made for rich people, people who can afford to be beautiful," he said, standing a little apart from her.

The woman blinked a few times. I could hear her start to cry a little.

"Oh, honey, I didn't mean it that way," he said, moving closer to her. He put his arm around her waist and punctuated his sentences with kisses. "I think you're pretty. You are very beautiful to me. I will always cherish you. Every lock of hair, every curve of your body, every feature, even that cute mole on your forehead everyone else made fun of in elementary school, remember that? I will always think you're beautiful, even when no one else will."

Her tears stopped. They hugged, and he smiled warmly. "Take me shopping with you next time," he said, "and I'll tell you what you look best in. Well, second best in. I've already seen you in your best outfit." The woman was turned away from me, so I couldn't hear what she said. The man smiled. "Your birthday suit, silly!" The woman laughed.

I stared at them for a moment. First Mike, then Hannah, then Mike again. I got back to painting before my gaze drew too much attention. How did this guy - this complete a*****e - not get dumped on the first date? How could this woman put up with him? Was she just stupid? I considered the possibility that the man was far more intelligent than she was, but then I remembered what she had said. All of her points were logical, and she didn't take a long time to come up with her responses. She didn't seem to be an idiot; she seemed normal.

Suddenly, I remembered my sister's first boyfriend. She was fifteen, he was seventeen, and nothing seemed wrong. He was the perfect gentleman and always treated her right. At first. After a few months, I saw that she was becoming more and more unhappy. After half a year, our parents noticed it, and after a year, everyone saw it. She spent all the time she could with him, and texted him until late at night, every night. She said she was only happy with him, yet whenever I saw them together, she cried. After our parents, all her friends, and I talked with her about it, she broke up with him. Later, she would describe the relationship as abusive and controlling. "He set it up so I'd fall for him really quickly, really hard," she said. "He was perfect. Then, he yanked back, hard. He made me feel worthless without him. He became the center of everything. It was always all about him."

What had happened to my sister was happening to Hannah. I was so angry that I had to pause a moment to steady my hand. I believe my anger was at least part of the reason I painted the background so quickly. I still don't know how it turned out so well.

I realized that this was becoming the best painting I had ever made. If I painted the couple right, this would be of truly professional quality. Well it was, wasn't it? They were paying me. That is what professional means: you get paid for it.

I finished the couple at dusk. It was better than I could have hoped. The sun's rays shone beautifully behind the woman's shirt. I had idealized her body just enough - not so much as to look like someone else, but enough to look like the best version of herself. I painted the man behind her, overshadowed by her brilliance. He was smiling, she was smiling confidently. Her shirt contrasted beautifully with her long dark hair. I painted her as a woman who could stand on her own, as I hoped she would one day be.

I cleaned up the lines and fixed a few minor flaws, then signed the bottom corner in brown. I took a picture of the painting with my phone, though something told me that wasn't courteous to the couple. I didn't care. I wanted a picture of my best work.

I warned the couple that the painting would take a little while to dry, so they should be careful with it. An idea popped into my head.

I took the painting off the easel and brought it over to the couple, acting disappointed.

"Here," I said, "Free of charge. Sorry I couldn't do you justice."

The woman took out her phone and turned on its flashlight. She looked confused. "But, it's beautiful!" She said.

"Thanks. It's my best work"

"Then why is it free?" Asked the man. He eyed me suspiciously and put his arm around his girlfriend.

"Because, despite all my artistic skill, I couldn't do justice to her - to your beauty," I said, turning from the man to the woman. Her smile reached her eyes again.

"What are you trying to say?" Asked the man. His grip became tighter. The woman urged him to be careful for the wet paint.

"Only that she is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen," I said. I didn't have to act for that part. She really was that beautiful. I turned to speak to her. "He really is a lucky man to have you."

The man was infuriated. The woman was beaming. I was glad they didn't look at each other.

"Let's go," said the man. The woman glared at him. He seemed a bit startled by the gesture. She thanked me, then went with her boyfriend, holding the painting carefully away from him. I only regretted painting a couple that I hoped would break up soon.

I put away my supplies and headed home. I was not yet a professional artist, but the day had inspired me. I resolved to paint more often, since these people would have paid for my art. One day, I would be able to support myself with my paintings alone. One day.

I looked at my phone. It was nearly time for my job at the fast food restaurant. I dressed in my uniform and went. If I decided to drop one of my jobs, this would be it.

Author's Note

First written on Wattpad. This is the first story I've completed, so any suggestions are welcome. I would especially like to work on dialogue and writing from a male first-person perspective.