Chapter 5

            I woke to an empty bed, covered in sheets that I hadn’t fallen asleep with. There was a note on Seb’s night stand. He wrote: “You’re so beautiful, even with that god awful snore. Get that checked out, will ya? Catch ya later. Sebastian.” A snort of laughter escaped me. I rolled over and got out of bed, the ocean welcoming me to the new day.

            

I did all the things one routinely does in the mornings: ate breakfast, showered, put on real clothes, etc. I packed my sketch book and pencils in a knapsack and left the flat. I spent the better part of the morning and early afternoon exploring the city, inhaling the scents and sounds of Barcelona. The streets were vibrant and humming with life, people weaving in and out of stores, and the music. Oh, the music. The music of a different language flowing through the air and between buildings, riding the breeze across sidewalks and into open windows. The melody of laughter and friends greeting each other. Then there were actual songs permeating the air between us all, strangers and friends alike, and it left me relishing the moment. This place vibrated on a completely different frequency than London, and I felt this childish sense of wonder. Colors and art flashed all around me, but after a few hours of sensory overload, I needed a rest. I guess I wasn’t totally cut out for the spice of Barna, or maybe the English had just tamed me more than I knew.

I wandered over to Ciutadella Park and found a bench overlooking a beautiful fountain, occupied only by an elderly gentleman in a hat reading the papers, his wooden cane resting gingerly between us. He eyed me over the top of his thick spectacles, but made no comment and returned to his articles.

Children were chasing birds while couples holding hands casually wandered the paths through this green haven. I crisscrossed my legs under me and pulled out my sketch book, eager to capture some of these blissful moments. Discreetly, I began with the man at the end of the bench. Luckily, his newspapers shielded my obvious glances and I drew the finishing touches on his gnarled, sun-spotted hands just as he was folding his paper and picking up his cane.

Quickly turning the page so he wouldn’t see, I leaned back against the bench for a moment, resting. I closed my eyes and my thoughts drifted to Seb, to everything that had happened in the last day and a half. I started sketching again, the same object beginning to appear on the pages whenever I let my mind and my hands absentmindedly wander. I had drawn it so much over the past year it seemed to have become embedded in my muscle memory and transformed into an unbreakable, unconscious habit. The skeleton of a lighthouse, sitting upon craggy rocks in the middle of the sea started appearing on the page.

This time though, I stopped my hand; I had a million drawings of this very subject. I didn’t need another, however much it seemed to relax me. Turning the page, I began to trace the outline of Seb’s balcony. I focused my mind this time, concentrating on details of the image I had invented back on my doorstep in London. I worked more quickly than usual, but Seb’s outline against the balcony, sitting on the edge of his bed gazing at the sea, was seared into my brain and I didn’t want to lose that clarity.

Finally, he was there looking out at me with his hollow gaze and arms resting on his knees, hair ruffled with sleep. Albeit he was on paper, but it was just as real as when I closed my eyes and imagined it. I held the paper, staring it at for a long time. It wasn’t perfect, but it was Seb. Somehow, beyond my skill, I had captured something that was true.

A seabird cawed and startled me out of my trance. The park had almost cleared and the thunder that rumbled overhead was the only explanation I needed as to why. Well, s**t, I thought to myself. Not wanting to ruin my sketches, I threw my book in my sack and took off running back to Seb’s, hoping to outrace whatever foreboding rainstorm was headed my way.

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            The clouds, heavy and burdened, began to relinquish themselves of their water weight long before I had made it even close to Seb’s flat. Fortunately I'm me, and I’ve always thought that a little rain shower never hurt anyone. In fact, I’ve always felt a little cleaner having been rained on and there’s an exhilarating feeling when you experience an unbroken rush of raindrops dripping down your face and neck, down your arms, your fingertips. I love that feeling. I love standing in the rain, head tilted back, laughing at the raw feel of it all. I always wish I could recall what that feels like, that pure happiness, but like the rivulets that wet my skin, feelings are just as elusively fleeting.

Out of breath and drenched, I finally stomped my way up to the flat. Very ladylike, I extracted my knapsack from under my shirt; my best attempt to keep my sketches as dry as possible. I hung the strap of my bag over a chair and turned to close the balcony doors before stopping short, noticing that they were already shut. In my peripheral I saw Seb sitting on the couch.

            “You’re back early. What’s up?” I plopped my sketch book down to dry on the coffee table where Seb had his feet crossed and headed towards the bathroom to put on dry clothes.

            “Yeah, yeah. We already finished all our indoor sets, so all that’s left are outside pieces. Can’t shoot in this s**t,” he said, using his hand to gesture towards the unreasonable weather. I heard a tinge of annoyance in his voice and I wondered how long he had been sitting there, staring blankly ahead as the storm outside raged on.

After a moment, I came back into the living room only to find him leaning intently over the coffee table, leafing cautiously through my book. I stopped in my tracks, horrified that I had carelessly just left my drawings out like that. It was unnerving to see someone examining my work when no soul had ever looked at it but me. Not even Ev had seen my drawings. 

The thing is, I don’t really see myself as an artist, but I draw because it makes me happy. It soothes my mind and allows me to shut out the rest of the world, at least for a little while. I draw things that move me. A person reading in a coffee shop. A small child laughing while it chases the wind. A lone bird in an empty, unkempt garden. Snapshots, memories. These drawings that Seb was looking at so casually, they were an extension of me. They flowed from my fingers and told my story when words were both too much and not enough. I haven’t ever shared with anyone because Doubt is always there, sitting on my shoulder and whispering in my ear. People will laugh, people will tell you their white lies, Doubt says to me.

Every time I draw a little bit of my soul goes on to those pages. I don’t share, because I don’t want anyone to reject that.

            I was still standing there, frozen, trying to subtly catch my breath. Seb eventually tore his gaze from my book and lifted his eyes up to my face. “You did all of this?” he questioned, still hunched over my book that was resting on the coffee table in front of him. He watched my face as I came and sat by him on the couch. I settled into the cushions, resting my chin on his shoulder and peering over to see which page he was on.

            “Yeah, I guess I did.” It wasn’t like I was carrying a book around with someone else’s drawings in them. There was no getting around that. He had started at the beginning, which was full of the English countryside and bits of London. A bookstore front, people milling about the train station, a woman crying outside a telephone booth. Life.

            As he went on there were ones of Ev, scattered here and there between other scenes. Ev in his backwards hat. Ev and I walking a lamplight path, hand in hand. Ev’s head thrown back in a howl of laughter, hands clutching his sides. His perfect beard and glowing smile. I felt an intense longing as my memory began to ask how he was...

            The sound of the page turning brought me back to the present. I mentally thanked Seb for not lingering. It was then I saw that he had reached the lighthouses. God, there were so many of them. I’d known that I had drawn an overabundance of them, but I had truly forgotten just how many there were. I kept my eyes on Seb’s face and watched as he idled over small details, lightly tracing the pencil lines with his fingers. Yet, he didn’t say anything, not until the last page. It was the picture I had drawn in the park today. The one of him.

            “What’s this?” he asked, looking up from the drawing to meet my eyes for the first time. He waited expectantly, but otherwise his expression was masked.

            “Well, it’s you.” Obvious.

            “I can see that it’s me, but how did you draw this? How could you know?”   

            “Know what, Seb?” I looked at him, puzzled, while he looked at me like one searching a crowd for a familiar face. Once I realized he wasn’t going to answer me, I went on. “The night you called me, as I was leaving my place, I just imagined you this way. Sitting up in your bed, looking out at the sea. I closed my eyes and this image of you was just there, like I had envisioned it a thousand times before or something. I, I don’t know. And today I just needed to get it on paper.” 

            He looked back down at my sketch, rubbing his thumb along the bottom edge of the pages. My bottled up nerves had had enough, so I stood up and turned my back to him to face the storm, hoping to lose myself in the sound of wild winds and trickling drops against glassed panes. The thunder hadn’t quieted any, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the throbbing pulse echoing in my ears. Maybe it was childish, but I was nervous about his judgment.

It was then I felt his finger hook into my pant pocket, holding me in place.

“Can I have it?” he whispered.

            I turned to look down at him, the confusion apparent in my raised eyebrows and wrinkled forehead. Why would he want that? What was this drawing to him? “Sure, Seb. Take it.” Without looking at me, he smiled to himself and gently removed just the one page from my book. He carefully held it in his two hands, gazing at with a meaning I didn't quite understand. He stood up and wandered off to his bedroom, while I replaced his vacancy on the couch. I pulled my sketch book and put pencil to page, hoping to replicate what I’d just surrendered, not realizing I would miss it. I laughed to myself, utterly bemused, and shook my head. I should know by now that we aren’t always meant to know the answers.

Author's Note

I definitely feel like this is one of my weaker sections - looking for any advice/help to make it better.

Reviews

[Christian N. C.]

I really enjoyed your description of the raindrops and how relaxing it is to just stand in the rain, that shows a good connection to nature I like how you tied that in. Also was wondering, roughly how old are these two supposed to be?

[mappingthenight]

I guess I never stated that, huh? They're supposed to be in their mid-twenties or so. At least, that's how I imagined them to be.

[Christian N. C.]

That's what I pictured too, but I wasn't sure. Thanks :)

[mappingthenight]

Of course! I'm glad you asked!