A Painter's Love

                                    

                                          
This is an old draft I found. I wrote it in 2016 and based on the ending I had been intending to continue it, but I think how it ends works well. Enjoy what 2016 me created.
                          


                          
The paint kissed the paper delicately as I spread my brush across it. With simple strokes I found my masterpiece slowly coming together. I leaned back and looked at my still model. She wasn't pretty, that's for sure, but she was paying good money. It was the only part of my job I hated. To make any decent amount of money I was forced to follow the client's every instruction. I wasn't allowed to add anything unique to their idea. At first I had tried suggesting my ideas, but they all discarded them haphazardly. It was as if whatever I thought never mattered but yet I still painted. I did make quite a lot of money as most of my clients were filthy rich and always came back for more. I sighed as I chose another color from my palate and continued the painting. I never painted for myself, never, making paintings without a guaranteed client was too risky. Critics could see it and belittle what I'd painted then I wouldn't receive any more clients. It could also sit in my studio as a reminder of my inability to sell it, a failure. I was tired of all this stress. With one last stroke I finished the painting. I looked at it a bit remorsefully wishing I could have made many edits to it. The painting was exactly how she would want it, but not how I wanted it. I looked up from the canvas to look at her. "I'm finished M'am."
                          
"About time you got it done. You should learn to paint faster."
                          
I shook my head and bit down my smart remark. She came over to look at my work and simply smiled. "It's perfect!" she handed me a wad of cash and then waved her hand, indicating that I should leave. I quietly gathered my things while she marveled at the portrait. I left without another word but my mind was whirring with many thoughts. You should paint faster. Lady you ought to know that an artist cannot be rushed! I angrily stomped down the street mocking her in my head. My stomach fiercely growled, warning me of my hunger. I glared at my feet and trudged towards the cafe I enjoyed. By the time I reached the small cafe my feet ached with every step. It didn't help that it was freezing out, making me desire the warm cafe even more. I entered with the small bell ringing out for the workers. They all turned to me with a friendly smile, waving hello. Despite my mood I smiled back and greeted them. I slipped off my beanie, releasing my bright green hair, as I sat down at the booth. I looked around the small cafe which remained in the same state as yesterday. The smell of coffee and breakfast remained heavily in the air even as the door opened, blowing in the crisp cold air. The waitress stood at the end of my table expectantly and I gave her a small smile. "the usual please." She gave a curt nod and ran off to the kitchen. My smile faded away slowly and I looked down at my hands on the table. They were stained with various colors from today's job. I wondered how these hands could be capable of making such beauty, but the rest of me was unable to. A plate was set before my hands and I took my gaze off of them to thank the waitress. The plate was decorated beautifully as the chef loved to show off his artistry, to me especially. It always made me smile knowing that at least he could express himself with his own ideas. My pancake looked, ironically, as a painter's palette next to a small portrait conceived by syrup. How I wish I could paint with my own thoughts. I ate my food silently going through my head of what schedule I may have for the upcoming week. Surely it would be a busy one. I finished my meal relatively quickly and stood up once I had. I left the money on the table for the whole check. I didn't care how much I paid over these people for they were almost like family as I came in here every day. I walked outside zipping up my jacket once I had pushed through the door letting the cold pierce the warmth I was once comforted with. I pulled my jacket tighter to my body as the cold still found a way to seep through. I was forced to walk everywhere as I had nowhere enough to afford a car and live fine for a whole month. It wasn't too bad usually all the clients' houses could be reached easily.  I picked up my pace knowing how close I was to being in my warm apartment. I kept my head down to prevent the cold wind from nipping at my face. Suddenly I felt a harsh pain in my shoulder causing me to quickly look up and turn around. The man did the same as me and he muttered an apology before leaving quickly. I stared after him for a while before I shrugged and continued towards my apartment. I turned my head back again to look at the man, his face was perfect. I silently wished I could have him as a client the entirety of his body was perfect for art. His muscular build was not too defined but you could still see them through his clothes, and his skin was a unique olive color unlike my pasty white skin. He had a beard and his hair was a beautiful dark raven while the top of his head burned with a bright crimson. He was perfect...