42 / 164
42
trying to say?’ I ask through an exasperated breath. He reaches down
to examine the pictures more closely. The hardened look on his face
starts to soften as he leafs through them, his lips curling up into a
faint smile.
Finally he turns his gaze back on me. ‘These are incredible,’ he
mutters softly. I set down my glass and stare at him with a sceptical
gaze. ‘You must be mad to think that this rubbish is any good,’ I
scoff.
‘Maybe I am,’ he laughs, picking out one of the smaller canvases
covered with the sky. The cool, muted blues lay softly behind the
vibrant yellows of stars that ignite the picture with a burning gleam.
The man stares at it for a long time, running his calloused hands
across the rough paint. ‘How much do you charge for these?’ his soft
green eyes are fixated upon mine.
I let out a small chuckle. ‘Whatever I can scrape up. Anything is
better than nothing.’ He reaches across the table and places his
timeworn, withered straw hat gingerly in front of me. ‘I don’t have
much, but this has gotten me through many tough days of painting,
drinking and sadness,’ he explains. I take it in my hands, turning it
over and feeling the worn out, rough yet soft straw under my fingers,
weathered over time. When I look up he is standing over me, money
to pay for his wine already placed on the table, my painting still in his
hands. He mutters a quiet thank you and turns on his heels, ready to
walk away.
‘What’s your name?’ I inquire after him, not willing to let this
stranger leave still clouded in mystery. He turns to face me one last
time. His soft eyes catch the gleam of the light cast by the lamp and
his mouth spreads into a smirk, accentuating the wrinkles etched in
his skin over time.
‘Vincent,’ he says, before slowly walking into the night, out of the
café, and my life forever.
‘
Colour
9