The teacher was saying something now, hoarsely and without much conviction. The young man paused to listen to her, the brush motionless in the air an inch from the canvas. He was impatient and wanted to keep going, but she did keep talking. The sudden desire to paint had nearly overwhelmed him, until it had soaked into him and he had always wanted to paint. As a kid in school he had dreamed of being a painter. That was how it had always been. Sometimes it nudged at his brain, a tickling feeling that told him he wasn’t always like that, but he ignored it. Ever since he’d gone to find a painting class he’d been so motivated, it was like he was an entirely different person.
There was a full paragraph now on the page. It looked so neat there, pressed against the margin, black letters marching in clusters only to hit the edge and fall onto the next line. Amy was pleased with the way it looked. It took her a minute to get back to it. She had to shake herself, to stop looking with eyes unfocused at the shape of the paragraph. It didn’t even say all that much yet.
The story was really just starting. She was writing about Luke, a young man learning to paint. He wasn’t very good at it yet, but he showed talent. He loved to swipe a brush across the canvas and see the color blaze on the white. It was satisfying, like banging a cymbal and sending a streak of noise through the air. The teacher was a bent old woman, who had a hooked nose and skin sagging from her face and a scraping quiet voice. He was a little afraid of her. She told him that he would never quite be good enough at it for his own standards – she hoped – and that was what made him an artist.
Amy nibbled on her thumbnail. Maybe that wasn’t right. Oh well, she could change it later. She typed a sentence, and then deleted it with an impatient tap of the keys. Was he impatient really, though? She couldn’t decide if he was in respectful awe of the teacher, or if he was bored and contemptuous.
There was an awful turmoil in his chest, so fierce and sudden that it nearly hurt. Luke swallowed, and wondered at the emotions warring in him. Fear and hatred, it seemed, and he couldn’t think why. Neither of them seemed particularly appropriate at the moment. The lovely old lady had finished speaking, and he was painting again after smiling wide at her. She had shuffled off to the kitchen, and he was alone with the soft melody and the rustle of the color against the canvas. He wished that he could just keep doing what he was already, without his mind and emotions all turning over and tangling.
Probably contemptuous, she decided. That really made more sense, and that way they could grow from that to a friendly relationship. Those things always seemed to start out like that, edgy and prickly. Later their relationship would develop. They might even be friends.
The teacher’s voice rasped from the kitchen, and Luke rolled his eyes at the ceiling. A pang of disdain struck him, and he felt he might stagger from the blow. What a dotty old lady she was! If this was how he had to learn he didn’t know how he would stand it.
That was a bit of an abrupt change. The bitter feeling replaced his amiable contentment so queerly and quickly that he stopped what he was doing, and stared at the rectangle of blurred attempts before him. Where had that come from? The glad feeling was gone, and he had been happy with it. This scorn sat in him like a bad meal, heavy and uncomfortable. It didn’t quite fit. A sigh heaved through him. He would just have to get used to this, perhaps.
The air was soon thick with paint fumes – did paint really smell so much? She thought about it for a minute, and then decided to leave it. If she had to, she’d go back to it later. Something had to happen, though.
His jacket was in front of him, and without willing it he saw his hands before him, swinging it over his head. The paintbrush lay on the paper towel, doused in turpentine and drying. At least he could be considerate enough to clean up after himself. He struggled with the knob for a moment, and pushed through the door and out. The teacher was walking carefully back into the room, stepping slowly so as not to spill the coffee, and looked up just in time to see the room empty and the door swing closed. Outside, Luke strode away, cringing at himself. He didn’t know why he had to go, to leave the poor woman like that, and he felt like he wanted to cry.
That was enough for today, her fingers were practically cramping. Amy flipped closed her laptop and smiled, satisfied. That was a good start to the story.