Two of Everything | louis tomlinson

.09

Louis starts mixing colors on his palette. Then he stares at the canvas, probably thinking what to paint on the stretched paper around the wood frame.

I turn to see the glass when I hear a bird bump with it. It slides down against glass until it touches the ground. I cover my mouth and laugh. He snorts and says, "It happens all the time. They're idiots."

"You can't blame them. The glasses are practically invisible." I say, and he chuckles quietly. He tucks a thin brush behind his ear, and puts the palette and big brush down on the table. He walks toward a small radio and turns it on.

He searches for a station and stops when he hears a station playing classical music.

I tilt my head in amusement. I didn't know he listens to classic music and the sounds of violins. He would always listen to rap songs.

"It helps me concentrate." He states, sheepishly. "I've never painted in front of someone before. I think it should go all right."

"What are you going to paint?" I pinch my hands between my thighs.

"You."

He meet my eyes with a little smile and my stomach starts tying in knots. The way he said it, reminded how much I've missed his voice.

"I'm kidding. Just a tree."

My cheeks start heating. Yep, he's still the same jerk. Married to a couch potato has it rewards too. It's not always negative. Louis spent too much time in the couch, watching black and white comedies that he turned into a comedy. He would always cheer me up whenever I needed to smile, despite how awful his jokes were.

Maybe Louis never failed as a husband; maybe I failed as a wife. Instead of fighting for him to get a job, I would've fought for a stronger marriage in spite we were financially unstable.

"You know how to paint, right?"

"I did." I say.

"What happened?"

I never did know how to paint, twit. I'm your wife. "Got in a car crash. Now I have amnesia."

I have to suck it up. For the rest of my life I'm going to be Mia, so I have to follow the story. He would never believe the truth as many proof I could show.

"But painting is a talent. Talent is natural. It never leaves you." He says staring at the white paper and he starts rubbing his chin briefly. "Come here, Ms. Styles. I'm going to help you develop your talent again. Let's paint whatever."

"Okay." I walk toward him. I'm trying so hard not to abuse his mouth with my lips. He's standing there, being the sexy little shithead he is. He takes off his shoes, revealing different colors socks. Green and blue. He goes behind me and softly pulls my coat off.

"You're going to paint with me." He says, cheerily and friendly while I take it as a romantic way and the knotting sensation is back in my stomach.

He hands me the little brush and tells me to tuck it behind my ear, and I do. He hands me another different brush and gestures me to move in front of the canvas.

"I don't know what I'm doing."

"What do you see?" He points at the white paper.

"Blank." I meet his blue eyes.

"Look again."

I bite my bottom lip and squint at the blank paper. What do I see? Nothing. Nothing's painted on it. After a five awful seconds, I hear him chuckle.

"I don't know, Tomlinson. What do you see?" I ask annoyed.

"What do I see?" He repeats the question softly and stands next to me. He stares at the paper.