Painting Nights

Dear Emma,

The truth is I'm not a painter.

The truth is I followed you here from that flower shop on Whitmore Street, two and a half months ago. Please, keep reading.

You actually took my breath away when I glimpsed you holding a bunch of lilies in your slender hands at the flower shop counter.  You stunned me. That's never happened to me before. I was watching you turning the bouquet left to right, you seemed in awe of the flowers' beauty.  Your eyes, your perfect smile, the way you held yourself. It was not a conscious decision to follow you here. I think I was in a trance. I know how it looks; I know it sounds like a movie.

When Miss Vale said it was only the beginning of the painting course, lesson two, I signed up, paid my money on the spot, just to follow you into the room.

Just to keep seeing you.  Just to be near you. I know it's crazy.

I stared at the back of your bobbed hair for that entire lesson. In my mind I was shouting for you to turn around and notice me. I didn't even paint the bowl of fruit Miss Vale asked us to paint. I told her I was getting the perspective right in my mind.

Remember the first conversation we had, the one about Monet, the water lilies? I made all that stuff up, just to sound like I knew something about famous painters. I really only knew that you loved lilies.

I arrived early the next week, just to get the easel next to yours, the old guy with the blue suede vest wasn't too happy. I get here early every week now; just to make sure he doesn't steal it back.

It's two months on and I really know you now. You're so easy to talk to, so warm and caring and kind. I love the way you grab my arm when you laugh at my jokes, or try and paint my cheek when I'm not ready to stop you. I write those little jokes throughout the week, just to tell them to you on painting nights.

Right now you're laughing at me, asking to look at what I'm painting. But I will keep this hidden until the end of the class when I'll probably just turn and run away. I'm sorry to tell you like this, a simple note written in grey pencil, on a big square of white canvas.

Tonight Miss Vale told us to paint something we loved.

But the truth is I'm not a painter.

Oliver