All The Unsaid Words

Reds as dark as the color of blood. Blues shining like a sparkling ocean. Yellows as bright and radiant as the sun. These are the colors I am used to using while painting scenery or portraits, but they aren’t good enough for the woman in front of me. Not even a little bit.

She has dark, luscious wavy black hair, and expressive light brown eyes that sparkle in the candlelight. Cheeks lightly dusted with freckles and slightly pink. Her flawless skin and cherry red lips complete the full picture. She stands with a posture full of grace and elegance, yet is as welcoming as a warm, cozy blanket on a cold winter day.

The second she had come through the doorway of my studio, I knew she was special. Something in me instantly connected with her. And before I knew it, I had fallen in love. Maybe it started when she shook my hand and I looked into those gorgeous eyes. Maybe it started when we made small talk about things that I wouldn’t even care about otherwise but did because she did. Maybe it started the day I started watching her every move, as small as it may be.

Painting her turned out to be an even harder task than trying not to blush every time she came twenty feet near me. All the colors I had seemed to pale in contrast to her beauty. I doubted a portrait could even begin to capture it. Nonetheless, I had to try.

I spent my whole morning colors together, eating bits of food when I could, and briefly talking to the woman. I learned that her name was Elizabeth Rosewood and she came from a wealthy family. Her father was a lawyer and mother a surgeon. Her elder brother was studying to become an architect, and she was going to be a nurse. I showed the required amount of interest in her other talk, but my mind was occupied on her first two pieces of information. If her family was rich, where does she live? Was she from England? Where does she work at? Most importantly, was she close to anyone…maybe she had a husband or boyfriend? Though she looked young, she was still an adult and looked mature for her appearance. I decided to ask her straight out anyways, and she replied no, she did not. Relief flooded my chest and my breathing slowed down to normal again. Just the thought of someone touching her or hugging her made me grip my arm wrests on my chair tightly.

As the morning passed into afternoon, and afternoon to night, I became more worried about how to make the colors needed for her portrait.

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