“So, how did you and John meet?” asked the artist, meticulously painting her latest masterpiece. She decorated the pale surface of her fresh canvas with delicately curving brushstrokes, adjusting the ombré shadows and subtle highlights. Chiaroscuro, strié, impasto. It had to be perfect.
“Oh, we met at this luncheon ages ago,” huffed the moving canvas, laughing nervously and smiling broadly to herself, “It was the craziest thing…”
The artist tuned out the story she knew all too well as the jubilant young woman seated in front of her blissfully recounted “love at first sight.”
The artist regretted asking her now, as painting an avidly moving canvas was rather difficult. She clumsily knocked over one of her many containers in frustration. Rouge blush powder exploded across the linoleum tiles and blanketed the artist’s shoes. Still, the inane woman gushed over John’s overly sweet proposal. Despite her best efforts, the artist could neither paint her masterpiece evenly nor brush the sentimental story aside. The most she could do was watch as her hand painted jagged lines across the palest spots. Hopefully, there would be time to fix it later. Wasn’t there always?
Colors began to seep into each other as the woman’s face rose and fell with each anecdote the artist recalled. Bold paint blended into muddy brown blemishes as the artist’s hand repeatedly slipped across the damn canvas. If only she would hold still!
Sighing, the artist fastidiously cleaned up the smears marring the preoccupied subject’s face. After a few minutes of wiping and retouching, the colors were back in place again.
“At least she looks like herself now,” the artist reluctantly concluded as she took a step back over the rouge powder to examine her finished masterpiece.
The woman was a vision in her white gown, smiling broadly; there was undeniable joy in her eyes. Today would be the pinnacle of her life, and her eager eyes dared anyone to deny it. She held a bouquet of roses in her right hand and a lace veil in the other. The artist took a moment to commend herself for her adeptness. The bride’s face was perfect, as usual, emitting an inborn radiance subtly enhanced by the artist’s work. Only death ever marred that virtue. Her groom was a different story.
“Thank you,” the blushing bride whispered gratefully. The artist merely nodded, unable to tear her eyes away from her white dress.
“Is this the finished painting?” asked a black-suited man quietly as he approached the artist from behind. The artist jumped a bit and tore her eyes away from her sole masterpiece. She glanced at the somber man and purposefully shifted her gaze back to the painting. It was magnificent, of course.
The man barely glanced at his own image in the painting before resting his gaze on his too-perfect bride. He would see more than the paint in those glazed eyes. More than he would ever see in another living soul’s eyes.
John turned to the reticent artist.
“She’s beautiful. Thank you.”
The artist merely nodded, fixing her gaze on the red-stained linoleum tiles around her feet.
“Really, thank you. How much is it again?”
“Don’t worry about it,” murmured the artist, shifting to meet John’s eyes and smiling politely, “I know this is a rough time for you, John.”
Tears welled up in John’s eyes as he gratefully nodded and dismounted the canvas from the easel. He held it close against his black suit and walked toward the steady stream of black garments flowing through the exit, back to the outside world.
John would hang the canvas somewhere in his house, where everyone would see it. It would serve as a daily tribute to his wife, the flawless bride who had filled every day with as much joy as they had shared on their wedding day. And the artist would be forgotten. John’s overwhelming love for Camille would always eclipse his artist friend’s deed.
“Thank you for the favor. You’re a great friend,” said John gratefully as he and his family in black stepped out the door.
The artist nodded and the door quietly clicked shut. Turning her back to the bare easel, the artist trembled as John left her for Camille one last time.