it wasn't long before he tried to figure a way to work his chains into her paintings. escaping was losing its luster and, instead, all he really wanted to do was help make what she was making better. it became his reason. it was the fire inside him that got him out of bed on the days that she wasn't sharing his pillow while wearing his sweater. it pushed him to stay curious. because even though inventing a new way of seeing his old passion was hard, it was the kind of hard that held a promise to change his life.
at first, he would sneak up behind her and watch her make a blank canvass matter. then, he'd inch closer. and closer. until he could whisper things in her ear to inspire her. "paint your soul," he'd instruct. and she'd turn, kiss his forehead and then paint her soul. one time, he brought his trunk of chains out from its corner with an audible heave and said, "your canvasses need a better place to rest. use this. cover it with paint. make it yours."
when she heard those words, her eyes changed and her heart did a happy dance. he couldn't feel what was going on inside her. but he always noticed when her eyes suddenly became more present. and in that moment, he knew giving her the trunk was right and good.
by the end of that day, she had covered every last inch of it in color. perhaps by accident, or by fate, she'd painted the lock shut - trapping the chains inside so that the only way to break them free was a sledgehammer. but their tool box was filled with garden spades, empty mason jars and a stray needle and thread. and they had no intention of adding to it.
No comments:
Post a Comment