Page 59 of The Muse
“Just wait for it,” he says, chuckling quietly.
These pancakes need to be the best pancakes in the whole world to overlook everything at Bennie’s so far.
Not wanting to bring up any conversation topics that could lead to my family, or bad memories for Scott, I jump in to the little knowledge of art that I have.
“What about Italy? Have you painted there? Isn’t it home to the great master painters? Or so I’ve heard.”
Our food follows our coffee and is shoved in front of us. And I have to say, regardless of the dire service, it looks and smells amazing. I cut into my omelette and melted cheese oozes slowly from the centre.
“No, I’ve not painted there.”
I look up from my food. “Would you want to?”
“One day, maybe.”
“You don’t want to see other art?” I’m confused over his reticence. I thought an artist would want to visit as many places as possible to draw inspiration.
“I tolerate art. I know what I like, and Italy is famous for its renaissance painters.Da Vinci, Michelangelo, Raphael. Masters in history, and no mistaking their talent. They don’t have the expression, though, the freedom that the French painters did. Paris was home to the impressionists. Art is steeped in every building, every street in Paris. You can’t help but draw inspiration from it. The likes of Degas, Cezanne, Renoir, even Monet.”
“I like Monet. The water lilies?”
“Yes. If you like that kind of thing.”
“You don’t? You just said-”
“I said that you couldn’t help but be inspired by it. Not that I loved Monet. He’s not my taste. But I can’t tell you how many hours I’ve sat in Rodin’s garden admiring his work and seeking answers.”
I ignore my breakfast, absorbed by his words instead. He’s not often spoken about his work. Shared glimpses, yes—like at the museum or the park, but hearing his passion now, his depth, lightens a piece of my own heart.
“Enough for you?” he says. I smile, knowing that he's well aware that he just showed me some more of his soul. Possibly for my benefit alone. “Good. Now eat, or you won’t be able to tell me how right I was to bring you here.”
We eventually leave, full, and head out into the spring morning. After the food arrived, the conversation continued to flow and everything seemed to be going right. Maybe I was being paranoid about asking to stay with Scott.
“So, should we add Bennie’s to the list?” he asks.
“List?”
“List of where we can grab breakfast in the future.”
Future. As in, past today. On another occasion. Together.
The word means so much more than the six little letters it’s made up from. It’s the best word in the whole of the English dictionary at that moment.
I stop and rise to my toes and kiss him.
“Sure.”
But he doesn’t kiss me back.
“What’s wrong?”
“You didn’t like Bennie’s.”
“It was great.” I smile, confused as to where this is coming from.
“But the pancakes weren’t as good as Sophie’s.”
He lets go of my hand and turns away from me. People walk around us on the pavement as we’re stopped in the middle of the street.
