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“How long was I out?” I murmur, checking the time on my phone as I scratch my head. The screen flashes 12:13, and I sigh at the thought of losing half a day to sleep.
I get up and stretch languidly, allowing my muscles to relax. Walking to the middle of my room, aka my art studio, I observe my surroundings and laugh at the mess I’ve accumulated in the past few weeks.
It’s about time I tidy up, I guess.
I make quick work of the brushes, storing them away carefully in my brush jar, and placing them on the table beside the easel. I then move to my balcony doors and open them, letting the cool breeze in and pull the pungent smell of oil paints and linseed oil out.
The streets at this time of day are quiet, save for the kids playing downstairs and the occasional gathering from the neighbors across my apartment complex.
“Today’s a good day,” I muse to myself before returning to my task. I begin organizing my materials and equipment. At the same time, I take out scraps of paper and tissues and dump them in the trash bin by the door.
Once I’ve made my room look decent, I step out of my sleep clothes and head for the shower to wash off yesterday’s grime. My hands are spotted with oil paint, their colors mixing on my skin. I turn on the faucet and do my best to get the paint off, taking a small bit of glycerin and dabbing them on the painted areas before scrubbing them clean.
After most of the dried paint has come off, I strip off my clothes and take a proper shower. I take my time, stepping out thirty minutes later and drying myself off as I walk to my closet.
I throw on a simple oversized shirt and some denim shorts. Sitting cross-legged on my bed, I take out the hairdryer and begin to dry my hair, brushing it as soon as I’m done.
I head to the living room, sighing as I weave through the countless paintings around me. Despite my luck of getting an apartment with a balcony, the space is still too cramped inside, especially with the number of paintings displayed everywhere.
But I keep this place even though I can afford something bigger because Dad got this for me when I decided to move out. Nothing can ever easily replace emotions and memories. This place is my home.
My stomach grumbles as I take my wallet from the couch, and I leave the apartment, descending the stairs in hurried strides. Immediately, I find myself in the quiet streets of the village.
But before I can get anywhere, Antonio bumps into me, a grin plastered on his boyish face.
“Ren! You’re finally awake!”
I chuckle, ruffling the boy’s curly hair. “What do you mean ‘finally?’ I was awake ages ago!”
“No, you weren’t!” he retaliates, matter-of-factly. “You weren’t listening to Laura Pausini on the balcony like you always do, so I figured you were still asleep.”
I laugh heartily, amazed by the kid’s observation skills. “Do I listen tothatmuch of Laura’s music?”
He nods enthusiastically. “Yeah! I hear it every time you call me over.” Antonio perks excitedly, bringing his hands behind him. “Anyway, do you need me to buy you lunch?”
I shake my head. “Nope. I’d rather buy something myself today, Antonio.”
“Aw, so no tip for me?” Antonio exclaims, pouting.
I chuckle at the kid’s words. “I’ll get you a cookie on the way back. How does that sound?”
“I’d like that very much. Thanks, Ren! You know where to find me!”
I watch him as he joins his friends before I take off for the other side of the street. I head towards Trattoria d’Abruzzo and enter the quiet restaurant.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Angelino!” I greet, walking up to the counter and taking a seat in front of the man. “Are you done serving lunch or did I make it just in time?”
“You’re just in time, Ren,” the old man informs, booming with laughter as he leans over the counter. “What will you be having today?”
“If possible, I’d like to have the day’s special?”
“You’re in luck! We’re havingcacio e pepetoday.”
I beam at the news. “Thencacio e pepeit is! I’d also like to have apizza al taglioand one cookie.”
“Will you be having it here?” Mr. Angelino asks expectantly, eyes shining.
I shake my head. “I’ll be taking out today’s special,” I say, already expecting his disappointment.
