The Girl Without a Mark

In which John is teased about his age and gets an inspiration for a new haircut

I was feeling stressed, more stressed than usual, which was saying quite a bit, actually. One would think that being able to paint, both digitally and with actual paint, for a living and be well paid for it would be easy and perfect, right? Nope. Not always. I mean, it's great being able to do what I love for a living and to be able to live well because of it, but the stress factor can be insane. Everyone always has this idea of what the perfect design should look like, and if I happen to make a slight mistake, it's like their blood pressure goes through the roof with how offended they can be. Especially during the holidays, like Halloween, Christmas, St. Patrick's day, etc.

The business side doesn't always mesh with the artistic side and it can be quite a headache. Arguments ensue, the worst ones end up with me threatening to quit the job, and if they want my skills badly enough they'll at least try to compromise. And if they are too stubborn, then I just pack my things and leave. No sweat off my back. With how many well paying jobs I've taken in the past five years, I could live comfortably for six months to a year and not have to offer my skills again.

The only downside to that is that I sometimes get to feeling crazy and bored without a project to work on. So when I met John at a coffee shop and mentioned that since St. Bart's had paid me the rest of the money they owed me for my work and that I needed something to do, he suggested I could paint something for each of my friends.

I brightened up and looked him over, taking in the shape of his jaw, the shape of his eyes and the colors he was wearing, tilting my head this way and that. John raised an eyebrow and asked me what the bloody hell was I doing.

"Deciding on how to draw old blonde hair," I teased.

"I'm not that old," John scowled. "I'm not even forty yet."

"By only a few years, mon ami," I laughed, running a few fingers through the tips of his hair to admire the colors. "Your hair is more like silvery-white and pale blonde, like a brighter form of salt and pepper. It's very striking," I added. "It would be even more striking if you trimmed the sides to about a quarter of an inch and let the top grow to about two or three inches and combed it back." I gave him an appreciative look as I imagined it.

"Women would find you to be very handsome, mon ami," I told him. I also wanted to make a comment about him being an older man but decided to spare him. I took a sip of my pumpkin spice chai latte and stood up to give him a hug when he stood up as well.

"Where are you going?" he asked me, sitting back down on his side of the booth we'd been sitting at to look at me as he took a sip of his tea.

"You've inspired me, John," I told him, slipping my worn black leather jacket and matching motorcycle gloves on. "I'm going home to do something artsy." I paused and glared, pointing at him. "Do not come in unless I say you can. It's important. And if His Royal Highness decides that it's not as important as a case or his boredom or whatever, you can tell him he won't be able to find his violin, gun or nicotine patches for an indefinite amount of time."

"I'll be sure to pass the message on to him," John chuckled. "I'll see you later, then?"

"Oui," I flashed one last smile at him before heading out to my bike to head home.