Twenty-Six: An Artist.
“Stars got tangled in her hair whenever she played in the sky.”
-Laini Taylor
On Thursday I took you on a proper date, because I figured since I was your boyfriend now, that was something I should do. I borrowed my aunt's car and showed up at your house, surprising you. You were fretting because you had no makeup on and were wearing an old sweater, but I told you not to change because you still looked beautiful. That made you smile, so I figured it was the right thing to say.
You kept asking where we were going, but I said nothing and that was partially because the streets were still snowy and I was somewhat terrified of careening off the road. But it was ice-skating, outdoors, and when you saw the rink you fell sideways and grabbed my arm, squealing.
“I've never been ice-skating before,” you admitted, as we sat on the splintery wooden benches and I laced your skates for you.
“It's okay,” I told you, taking your hand as we approached the gate on quivering legs. “You'll do fine.”
I was wrong, but it was okay.
I've always been fairly stable on the ice, but you're even less coordinated in skates than you are in your regular shoes. I held both your hands and moved backwards, slowly, tugging you along as you skidded and tilted, your cheeks pink. We made it around the ring once, with all the little kids giving us strange looks as they sped past us. I didn't mind. I'd much rather stay slow with you than speed along with everybody else
“I don't think I'm very good at this, Sam,” you admitted after our first lap.
I shook my head, smirking. “Nah, you're a natural.”
You gave me a look. “I hear your sarcasm, Windermere.”
I just linked our arms and started skating again.
You fell only once, but in a big dramatic way and with a silver bell shriek. I'd only let go of you for a second, but that was enough to send your legs flying our from under you, your arms windmilling as you landed on the white ground.
Once I was sure you were okay, I started laughing and couldn't stop, because you were parked on the ice with your bottom lip sticking out and your arms crossed over your sweater. We must have been a sight, with you throwing ice flakes at my pants and me clinging to the wall, laughing. Trying to help you up was a mistake, because you purposely pulled me down, tangling our legs and sending me sprawling onto the ice.
“All right, I'm sorry!” I cried, as you giggled and sprinkled ice into my hair.
It took another short eternity to get ourselves up, because we were both laughing so hard that our sides hurt and there were tears and our eyes and ice all over our pants. After that we decided that we'd had enough of skating for the day, so we turned in our skates to a pimply teen attendant and took to the city streets, fingers entwined.
The snow was dirty by now, but it was still snow and a big pile of it fell onto your head from a lamppost as we waited to cross the street. It all caught in your hair and glittered like a million tiny stars. You didn't try to brush it off, and as you twirled down the sidewalk with lights tangled in your auburn locks, I was glad of that.
I'd brought my new camera with me, the little Polaroid, and I took pictures of you as we walked. The snow in your hair, balanced on the precipices of your eyelashes, all captured on glossy paper squares. The dimple on your cheek that appeared as you spoke, the way you looked at me through eyes half closed. I was no photographer, but I wanted to snapshot every moment of you.
We came across a street artist in the Pearl District, a gangly beatnik wannabe who sketched portraits for six dollars. He waved at us, and you thought it'd be cute to get our picture drawn so we went over and sat on the bus stop bench he was set up around.
“Five minutes, tops,” he told us, as I paid him and he began to draw. I couldn't see his eyes behind his dark glasses, but I felt the needles of his gaze on my face. I stole glances at you every few seconds, and the whisper of your smile overpowered the artist's scratching pencil and the chatter from the streets. No makeup, snowy hair, fraying sweater, but I thought you were incredible. I wondered if that meant I was in love.
The finished product was a rough sketch of our smiling faces, but the detail was stunning. Everything was accounted for, all the way down to the snowflakes in your hair. I saw you staring at the image of yourself yourself, wide-eyed, as if you couldn't believe the beautiful girl in the drawing was you. As we walked away, you asked me, in a whisper, “Is that girl really supposed to be me?”
Our fingers were linked, and your other hand held the thick paper of the sketch. I leaned into your shoulder to look at it. Of course I didn't think it quite captured your true beauty, but it came pretty close. The only thing missing was all the life in you; something that pencils and shading couldn't catch, because it went beyond the confines of appearance and a two-dimensional smile.
“It's definitely you,” I affirmed. “Why?”
You paused on the frozen sidewalk, a comma in the middle of an icy sentence. You moved your mouth like you were trying to pull the words out of the air.
“Because...because she's pretty.”
I just stared at you, because I thought we'd been over this. I thought I'd told you how pretty you were, but when I looked at your expression I realized that you still didn't believe it. I didn't understand, but I grabbed both of your arms, gently, and turned you to face me.
“That's why she's you,” I murmured, and then I kissed you, in the middle of the dirty snow sidewalk, because that just seemed like the only right thing to do.
When I dropped you off that evening, I made you keep the picture, the sketch of the awkward boy and, more importantly, the pretty girl with stars in her hair. You looked at me oddly when I insisted, but you didn't get it. I just wanted you to have something besides my feeble words to remind you of how beautiful you are.
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A/N: dedicated to @purplepencils because she's awesome and here's a physics joke
What's a physicist's favorite pet?
A BOHR CONSTRICTORRRRR
omg it's so bad i'm dying okay bye guys
