The Artist
She stood in the elevator watching the number
meter rise one by one, starting from the ground up. In a trench coat, tan in
color with a little too much makeup on her face, the woman pulled the tie from
her hair, letting it flow across her shoulders. One of the walls was made of a
mirror while the other two were of a cheap fabric material, dark violet in
color. The lift had that distinct smell, one of air freshener and window
cleaner which was probably applied by the maids every day.
The woman looked over to the right at the
mirror, catching her reflection. Bringing a hand to her hair, she tried to
adjust it a little. Wring it out, push it up to give it that life and curls
that she knew she had.
Nothing. It remained wet and flat.
With a sigh she returned to the number meter,
which now hit ‘15’ on the mark. The doors opened.
Walking to her right, she stepped out onto an
open walk way. When she had first moved here, she was terrified of heights,
barely looking down when she left her apartment. The window in her room beside
her bed, she had kept closed.
But that all changed after one night when it
started to rain, and the thunder started to roar with authority. She had gone
to see how close the storm was despite it being high in the pitch black, night
sky. Sudden lightning streamed across the sky and illuminated the whole city.
She timidly looked below, noticing for the first time all the people down
there, like insects scurrying to find their shelter.
Many nights afterward, clear skies or not, she
would look out her window and watch the city with a smile on her face. She
imagined all the people, and what they were wondering about on nights like
these.
She had never been good at writing, painting, or
music. But with a smile on her face as she came up to her door, lost in
thought, she grinned at feeling like an artist, glancing out her window.
Capturing … the moment.
It was a light feeling, but it was something
that never hurt when she put too much faith into it.
Rattling the key after fitting it into the slot,
she pushed the door open.
“I’m home!” she called out.
She appeared from the bedroom, light skinned and
very quiet, a young girl who lived next door.
“He’s asleep…”
“Thank you again for staying so late, we got
busy-”
“It’s alright and I never mind. Besides, he’s
great company.”
“Tell your parents I said hello and thank you
again…”
“You said that already,” her young friend
laughed before leaving, not asking about pay and promising to babysit again.
The woman walked into the bathroom, removing her
coat and work clothes before heading to bed.
The child slept under the covers, head on the
pillow. Dark brown hair, like hers and curly, he breathed in and out softly.
Her five year old son. He never seemed to be
afraid of anything.
Reaching over, she kissed his forehead and
rested next to him. Wrapping her arms around him, she pressed him gently
against her. Sometimes, not for his comfort, but hers.
The light in the bathroom remained on. She
didn’t get up to turn it off. The room was not too bright, and not too dark, so
within moments she fell asleep to the therapeutic sound of light breathing and
heavy traffic.
For now, it was enough for the both of
them.
![[send message]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/mail.png){kind=small}
![[befriend]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/friend.png){kind=small}
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Flag Writing
