Chapter 13: A Rose and Lily in Bloom

Twenty-four isn't an exciting age, I thought. School and university finished and the first few years of working done, it sort of had nothing new to add. I had fun with my friends and we did new things, but nothing excitingly new. A familiar new.

It didn't weigh on me, though. I enjoyed my work as much as anyone can, getting to write and research articles, mostly for my friend's magazine. Even kept up with my drawing, a relaxing hobby for when I could only think in words. Good enough for me. A lifetime of that would have been pleasant to endure.

But then, a Wednesday afternoon like any other happened.

The fluorescent lighting made the hallway too bright for a wintry February day—it really emphasised the yellow tinge to the cream walls. Still, I didn't have to work under them, so I headed to David's office without whining any more.

Turning a corner, a mess of papers and a person picking them up blocked the way. “Can I help?” I asked, kneeling down already.

She replied succinctly. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” I said warmly, shuffling loose pages together.

Between the two of us, it only took a minute to clear the floor. I imagined re-sorting the documents would take a while. From what I had glanced over, though, it all look numbered, so not too long. Both of us standing up once again, I passed her what I'd gathered and looked at her.

The glimpses of her I'd paid little attention to before hadn't prepared me.

Pale skin, beautifully so. Porcelain the wrong word, being something that glittered, where as her skin glowed white like chalk would under the sterile light. Her makeup impressed me. It looked minimal, which showed how little I knew. Teasing her lips red and cheeks rouge, so subtly, I felt confident to guess she took care with it.

The outfit contrasted and complemented her. Well-fitted, it had a masculine style, made of straight lines and sharp corners, trousers rather than a skirt. Together with her restrained use of makeup, she gave a professional impression. Someone who spoke through work ethic. Pulled back into a bun, her blonde hair almost shimmered silver.

“Thank you,” she said again, bowing her head, holding the folder tight.

“No problem,” I said again, smiling, and she returned it briefly.

After another bow of her head, she strode off, passing me and disappearing around the corner. I waited a moment, then continued on my way.

Rather than ask David if he knew her right away, I waited until the next day when we met up for lunch (packed lunches) in the kitchen for the companies on that floor. He didn't like to be far away from his desk during work hours.

I got the coffee going for him when I arrived. Avoided the stuff myself. Had enough time to set out a pair of plates and cutlery before he opened the door and he wasted no time looking for me, heading right to where we always sat.

We chatted about our usual stuff, catching up more interesting in person. When I broached the subject of the lady, he didn't have anything to add, just a suggestion she worked for the finance company that rented the other half of the floor. I'd thought as much. Even if I only came in a couple of times a week, I knew everyone at the magazine—all twelve of them.

His lunch hour drew to a close with one last cup of coffee. No rush for me, I tidied up after us, planning the rest of my afternoon. Not much urgent work on my plate. On my way out, that plan went out the window.

“Hi,” I said, a step away from the opened door.

“Good afternoon,” she said, inclining her head, and then kept walking.

I hesitated before turning around. She fiddled with the coffee machine. My mind spinning, trying to think about what to do, felt fresh. A nervousness I hadn't experienced in a long time. Dwelling on it, I began to wonder if I had even felt this way before.

My thoughts had to come to a halt when she glanced over. I smiled softly and walked over, immersing myself in the moment. Holding out a hand to her, I introduced myself and my job.

“Lily,” she said back; I thought it fit her well. A Junior Finance Assistant, not that I had any idea what that meant. Well, city finance meant a good paycheck and hard work.

A few more sentences of small talk went back and forth, then the words I'd been trying to find arranged themselves neatly on my tongue. “Would you model for a portrait?”

She blinked at me, mouth a touch open. “Um,” she mumbled, and it strangely caught my attention because it made me realise how she hadn't used filler words so far. A precise talker, conscious of what she said.

“I draw as a hobby,” I said. “Maybe after work or on the weekend, we could meet up at a café. It should only take half an hour, maybe an hour, and drinks are on me.”

The moment stretched out my nerves. I wouldn't have been surprised if she rejected my request, but thinking about my desire to draw her going unfulfilled still brought up feelings of frustration. Denying inspiration didn't ever feel good.

“Okay.”

She said it so softly I didn't know if I'd heard or imagined it. I looked at her and she looked right back. Though I could see the confidence in her expression, she couldn't hide the pale blush coming out beneath her foundation.

“Great,” I said, smiling brightly, so much so she couldn't look directly at me, her gaze shifting to the side. I didn't want to keep her long, so we chose a place just down the road from the office and Saturday noon, then I left to let her get on with her day.

Outside, I stopped. All the emotion hitting me at once, I couldn't stop the grin from taking over, a giddiness filling me. It felt great to get what I wanted. I felt great. Already, anticipation began to build up inside, yearning for the weekend. A sense of purpose, something new and exciting—I couldn't find the right words to describe my state of mind, but I liked it, loved it.

Coming down from the rush, I'd made my way home. Not much set my apartment apart from others. I didn't care much for decorating, so I used the wall space for some of my favourite pieces I'd made over the years. Otherwise, a larger range of pots, pans and utensils probably the rest of the difference. Not even piles of obscure books littered the place since I'd mostly moved to digital.

With my mind shifting from feeling to thinking, I started to plan. I got out my sketchbook and rustled up some pencils. Closing my eyes, I wanted to capture her onto the page, sorting my memories into an image of her.

I started. The outline came together well enough. Soft, gentle lines that caressed the paper, leaving a hint, nothing more, behind. When I switched to colours, I found myself cornered. Though pale beige, the page had a darker tone than her skin and I couldn't exactly lighten it. I experimented nonetheless. However, to really make it match, I would have had to go over the whole face in white pencil.

Putting those tools aside, I contemplated acrylic paints. I didn't have as much practice, but the colours would have come out stronger, especially the white. If I wanted to be accurate, I thought, then they would do. That required a shopping trip. I double-checked my supplies and found the red empty and black low.

The evening still young, I cooked up an omelette, eating it while watching some show about fixing up houses, then practised with the paints I did have. In the end, it still missed something, though I couldn't say what.

Friday greeted me with overcast skies, which I hoped would clear overnight. I made my way to my usual art shop. It had the right mix of decent prices and nearness.

Outside, I looked over the chalkboard, but it didn't have any interesting deals for me. Going in, I looked over the familiar shelves, but didn't find anything interesting. So, I stuck to the acrylics and a couple of extra brushes, throwing in some good paper too. Before heading home, I took a step back and looked at the shop. I let my thoughts run their course, making sure I didn't forget anything, didn't miss anything.

Inspiration struck. I rushed back in, piling together another bagful of stuff, and then raced home. For hours I practised, staying up until I'd only have time for six hours of sleep—and just a bit longer.

Sleep came easy.

I scrambled through my morning routine, managing a shower and a cup of tea before heading out. The weekend thickened the midday crowds, so I meandered through as best I could, sighing with relief when I got away from the busy stations, and walked down the peaceful street of office blocks.

A bit early, I had time to grab a table and breathe, then she arrived.

Having seen her before did nothing to help me. A summer dress came down to her knees, the fabric so light it trailed behind her and fluttered with the breeze. Too cold for just that, she wore a sheer blouse, unbuttoned so it only covered her shoulders and arms.

A ghostly, angelic, beautiful sight.

I had gotten so sidetracked I barely managed to stand up in time to greet her. She greeted me back with a smile that looked out of place, more a smirk or, on the generous side, impish. Arranging the drinks, her confident mannerisms leaked out. At odds with her soft outfit, they came out as arrogant, but I didn't hold her to that.

When I came back with a coffee for her and a tea for me, we spent a little more on small talk while we drank. Then, I pulled up my bag of stuff, emptying it onto the table.

“Chalk?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

I smiled, giving the board a last dust before I began. “Yes.”

Her lips rippled with unsaid words. She took a deep breath, and chose a question instead. “How do you want me to sit?”

“Any way that's comfortable,” I said, lining up the chalks. “I'm not fussy.”

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A snort of air left her nose. Breathing deep again, she shuffled in her seat, fidgeting with the dress, then she rolled her shoulders and her gaze flickered back and forth before settling on some place to stare at. Her hands rested on the table at first, but she soon moved them to her lap.

“Ready?” I asked.

She licked her lips, raising her head a touch. “Yes.”

Picking up the white chalk, I asked, “Are you happy?”

She didn't move, but the question unnaturally stilled her. “What do you mean?”

“Do you like your job? Do you spend time with friends, or have a hobby? Do you feel fulfilled?”

The colour came out perfectly on the board. Smooth strokes followed her face, coming down to her chin, neck, and shoulders. Later on, I would have to shade her and I already feared that time. Feared every moment. Even if I had ten million chances, I didn't think I could do her justice.

But I only had one opportunity, so I wouldn't fail.

Breaking the silence, she said, “I haven't really thought about it before.”

“I like drawing. It helps me unwind when all I can think of is work. Best of all, I end up with piles and books full of my art and I can be proud of that. It's like my secret stockpile of self-worth, you know? If I'm feeling useless, I can flick through some of it and it helps me feel better.”

My attention focused on her attire earlier, I hadn't noticed her as much. In natural light, loosely hanging down below her shoulders, her hair shimmered. Blonde that blended from silver to gold depending on how the sunshine fell onto it. Somehow, I had to tease that out of the chalks.

“Is there anything like that in your life?” I asked.

She took her job as model seriously so far, as still as I could have asked an amateur to be. “Not really,” she said, and I heard the slight hesitation.

So I called her on it. “Really?”

“I, I challenge myself,” she said, showing some fluster.

“That's great.”

That I didn't go further relieved her, a deep breath settling her down. My drawing moved on to her eyes. Hard to tell, they straddled the line between blue and grey. Bright eyes, though. She didn't look at me, but she surely felt me looking at her.

“I have a group of friends I do a lot of stuff with. Boardgames and pub quizzes, sometimes just a picnic at the park when the weather's nice. Do you have people you're close to? Friends, flatmates, family, a partner?” I asked.

Her gaze lowered a touch. “No.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” If she heard me, it didn't show.

Finishing her eyes, I moved on. Her makeup had subtly changed compared to before. Working on her lips, they took on a more vibrant shade of red, which drew the eye to them. Thin lips. Perhaps, I thought, precise lips fitted better. They didn't look how I wanted them to, though.

“Could you smile?”

She did, but clearly a polite smile. I worked with it as best I could, then I used my secret weapon.

“Lily?” Her gaze shifted to me, and I met it. “You're beautiful.”

For a moment, she smiled, then bit it back, looking away from me. “What was that?”

I smiled myself, touching up her lips. “You have a beautiful smile.”

It had no visible effect that time until her cheeks softly coloured through the foundation. With the main parts done, I set about shading, adding depth and all those sorts of things. I wished for all the time in the world, but I didn't want to waste her time.

Finished, sunlight made the picture glow in my hands; chalk had been the right choice.

I stood up and she copied me. We'd been about the same height before, but I guessed she had been wearing high heels because I had nearly a head on her now. She was slender too, without the suit. A feminine counter-image. Two sides of the same coin.

“Here,” I said, handing over the board.

She took it gingerly, keeping her eyes on me for the longest time before they lowered to the drawing. My heart beat with that moment of doubt. A second where every criticism I could give of it rang out clearly in my head. The desire to be accepted and praised so intimate.

Her mouth opened a touch, but she just stared at it, kept staring.

“Do you like it?” I asked, hoping my inner turmoil didn't show through my voice.

She didn't look away, but nodded slightly. A second later, she said, “It's beautiful.”

Smiling, I replied, “You're beautiful.”

Her gaze snapped to me, face still had a kind of carelessness to it that looked so out of place with her character, or at least what she'd shown me so far. Words wobbled on her lips, but never came out.

“Thank you for letting me draw you,” I said, breaking eye contact to start packing up my chalks. “I enjoyed talking to you too. Do you want meet up again some time? Maybe for a date, or just as friends if I'm not your type?”

When I looked back up, she'd gone back to the picture.

Touching the side of it to get her attention, I said, “You can have it.”

Some of her composure returning, she held her lips closed and still. Her sharper tone of voice and precise manner of speaking came back too. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I said. “You were kind enough to sit for it and this memory is already enough for me.”

She clutched it while being sure to keep it away from her clothes. The wind whipped by, billowing her dress, throwing strands of hair across her face, and she didn't waiver. I wanted to reach out and brush her hair to the side, but didn't want to overstep any boundaries. She did it herself anyway.

It might have been a minute we stood there, just looking at each other. I didn't want to be the one to leave. A whole afternoon spent like that would have been fine by me, so she had to make the move.

“I,” she said, and it hung in the air by itself for a moment. “I don't normally date women.”

“I don't mind.”

She looked up a little and caught my gaze. I smiled for her; she smiled back, but tried to squash it only to fail. Still, she didn't look away, showing her confidence, her arrogance—herself. I wanted to see more of her, so much more.

“Will you make an exception for me? Or, do you think we could be friends?”

A smirk, or perhaps an impish grin, settled on her lips. “I suppose one date couldn't hurt.”

“Great,” I said, smiling brightly.

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