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Devlyn keeps to himself for the most part, and I don’t mind. The trait adds to his allure. Gives me ambition to learn more about him through conversation. Devlyn may be quiet on the outside, but something tells me the inside is the polar opposite. Eclectic and mysterious and affectionate. Perhaps a little loud and overzealous.
Maybe, just maybe, I will find out.
SIX
DEVLYN
The past tendays at Petal and Vine, constantly inhabiting the same space as Shelly, reminds me ofThe Mulberry Treepainting by Van Gogh. Subtle hints of color illuminating vitality and brilliance. A hidden fire, out in the open, waiting for the right kindling to set it ablaze.
Oh, how I want to be her kindling.
But after years of solitude and single-minded focus, I feel so out of my element in personal conversation. Sharing pieces of myself with someone, especially an attractive woman.
It isn’t the actual conversation I find challenging; I speak with strangers often.
Conversations related to business flow with ease. Someone purchases or praises my art online or in the community, my introversion takes a back seat. The typical interaction at exhibitions, some might say I don’t shut up. Shoptalk doesn’t make me uneasy.
But talking about something other than art—my pieces or someone else’s—isn’t something I do often.
While Chet was in town, even our conversations were clipped. Not that we didn’t have anything noteworthy to share, we just understand each other. Understand the inner workings of the creative brain. That we don’t necessarily voice everything we think or feel or perceive. Instead, we digest it in our head and translate it via art. Some on a sketchpad, others on canvas, and many with another medium.
Oddly enough, I enjoy conversations with Shelly. Conversations about something other than work or art. With each passing day, she opens up more. As do I. Like the petals of a morning glory. Slow and steady, then all at once.
Since walking through the doors of Petal and Vine, I have learned a lot about Shelly.
Her preference for pink is unrivaled. Pink isn’t the only color she wears, but it is somewhere on her person each day. Whether it be accents in the attire or the elastic securing her ponytail.
She prefers tea lattes over tea with a splash of milk, but won’t disclose this. There was no disguising the twinkle in her twilight eyes when I handed over the extra spicy chai tea latte. Never had I seen someone so excited for a drink.
Which is why I bought her the same drink today.
“Enjoy the rest of your day,” Shelly says to an older man leaving with a bundle of flowers in paper and twine. The bell over the door jingles, the man waving goodbye as he exits. My eyes are glued to the door when I feel Shelly sidle up to my right. “Looks dreamy.” Her voice soft and fantastical.
I twist and take in her profile, her gaze lost in the meadow on the wall.Her meadow.The one I painted with her in mind.
Whimsical weeping willow branches in the foreground. Tall grasses a pale green and golden brown. Wild purple flowers and sunset-colored echinacea buds. Common daisies and bold-blue cornflowers. And a small cobblestone path that starts at the floor and trails a few feet into the meadow before disappearing.
“Good. Was the impression I wanted to give.”
She stares at the meadow. Studies the intricate lines and detailed strokes. Meanwhile, I revel in the contours of her profile. The minor slope of her forehead and prominent arch of her brow. The subtle angle of her nose, slight flare of her nostrils, and dip of her philtrum. The plumpness of her lips, the bottom fuller than the top. And the strong yet soft line of her jaw and chin.
Shelly is real-life art. An artist’s model. A muse. A goddess.
I shake my head. Shake away the fantasy of something more.
It’s just a job. Nothing more. Never anything more.
Shelly snaps her gaze away from the meadow and meets my stare. The usual sparkle in her twilight eyes is muted, duller, less dazzling. I want to ask her the cause of her sudden mood shift. What brought on her melancholy?
But I don’t, fearing I already know the answer.
After I leave Petal and Vine tonight, I won’t return. Not for work, anyway. And this fact displeases her.
A twinge expands in my solar plexus. Reminds me not seeing Shelly every day will be difficult for me as well. Something I am not used to… missing another person.
What alternative is there?
I don’t want this to be it. The end. The last day I see her. But I don’t want to give her the wrong impression. Don’t want to lead her on and spread false hope. It wouldn’t do either of us any good. Still… this can’t be it.
