The Checklist || Álvaro Morata

VII

Ping, ping.

Applying the finishing touches to the image I was editing on my laptop, I took my phone from the table and checked the message I'd just received.

Carolina Martínez: Hey. All finished off at the doctor. Mind if I go over to your place?

I smiled to myself as I typed out a reply.

Álvaro Morata: How's that even a question? Anything special in mind?

'Typing...' Appeared on the screen as I anxiously awaited a reply. It'd been weeks since Carolina and I had done anything other than make out, and well- a man has his needs.

Carolina Martínez: Mmm... Anything in mind? ;)

Álvaro Morata: Netflix and chill?

Carolina Martínez: JAJAJAJA

Carolina Martínez: You just had to ruin the moment, didn't you?

Grinning, I bit my lip.

Álvaro Morata: Nah, you love me.

Álvaro Morata: And don't worry, nena. I have plenty of things in mind.

Carolina Martínez: Mind telling me what they are?

Álvaro Morata: I say you come on over and find out. ;)

Smiling, I looked out the window in the small room I used for my art. The sun was shining bright, sunlight flooding the room and bathing it in a warm glow. In reality, it was a mess, but in that light it looked almost magical- ethereal, even. Discarded canvases covered the floor, artwork abandoned half-way through, not given a chance to fulfil it's true potential. Mugs full of old paint water decorated the tables, and a vase full off wilting lilies laid by the window, a present from my aunt when she had come by to visit. Paint stains covered the chipped wooden easel my mother had bought me when I was 15. It was old, whined in protest whenever I moved it around and was much more of a hassle than it was an asset, but it was my mother's gift, and I'd never had the heart to throw it away and buy a new one- no matter how desperately I needed it. I still remember the time I'd gone to my favourite art store to buy a new one, saw a nice one and had been about to tell the clerk that I'd take it, but then I had noticed that I'd left my wallet at home, and when I ran back to get it, I knew I couldn't discard my mother's old easel. It was much like an old man, you had to take good care of it so it wouldn't break, but it was full of stories and experience. It was on that old easel that I'd painted the pieces that got me into university. It was on that old easel that I'd unleashed my rage when my dad cheated on my mum and they'd gotten a divorce. It was on that old easel that I'd painted my mother a picture of her beloved garden for her birthday, and it was on that same old easel that I'd painted the pieces that led me to Carolina.

My phone buzzed in my hand, making my small bubble pop. Some clouds had covered the sun, and the reality of the room I was standing in struck me.

It was stained everywhere, and besides the canvases and newer art supplies, it was hard to find something that was not broken. It was too small to be an art studio, the part of my flat that was meant to be a guest room but wasn't, and there was an imminent feeling in the air that something was about to burst, like all the ideas and feelings that I'd crammed into the room could no longer be contained.

It was far from perfect or ideal, but in the midst of everything, I had made it
mine.

-

When Carolina arrived at my door, I had to resist the great temptation to kiss her right then and there. She smiled at me, walked into my flat and set her bag down on the kitchen counter. As she turned around to look at me, she raised her eyebrows questioningly.