Page 5 of Blank Canvas

A server arrives at our table, offers refills, and asks if we need anything else. With Chet more than happy to talk all night, I order something more substantial than an appetizer. She scribbles down my turkey burger and fries, our drink refills, and Chet’s buffalo wings on a small notepad, then wanders back to the bar.

An older man steps up onto the karaoke stage and the crowd roars to life with wolf whistles and rapturous applause. Obviously, he is karaoke famous in this place. A local favorite.

I study the man as he takes the stage. Old enough to easily be my grandfather, the man sports attire of someone half his age or younger. His vibrance captivates and holds your attention. For a beat, I picture him in a swirl of blues and reds and whites on canvas. The wrinkled lines of his face a testimony of a life well lived.

Across the dining area, a voice screams above all the rest and steals the spotlight momentarily. “We love you, Karaoke Grandpa.”

The old man blows kisses to the masses. “I love you too, sugar.”

I scan the sea of excited bargoers in search of the woman who called out to him. Not sure why, but I need to put a face to the voice. I crane my neck and survey hundreds of men and women, looking for the one face excited to see this man grace the stage and microphone.

And then I land on her.

Familiar and not in the same breath. Sun-kissed golden skin. Dark, twinkling irises fanned by long lashes and accentuated with bold brows. Thrill on her naturally pouty lips and at the corners of her eyes. A slim yet prominent nose. Thick, dark-blonde waves swing from her ponytail; the occasional stubborn lock grazes her cheek, but she doesn’t swipe it away.

Where do I know her from?

I dig through my mental archive and search for her face. Run the contours of her cheekbones and lips and nose against my mental database. Scour all the places I frequent and the jobs I have done. And it doesn’t take long before I get a hit. Before her familiarity becomes crystal clear.

Last year. The mural I painted outside Petal and Vine Florist before fall semester. The woman more vibrant and spectacular than all the blooming buds in the shop. The woman I spent hours sneaking glances at, only to get small snippets of her profile or the way her hair glowed in the sunlight. The woman whose name I never learned because our paths barely crossed.

No matter how many peeps I got of her partial profile, I wanted more.

I had never spent so much time on such a simple project. Never purposely dragged out my art to spend more time in someone’s presence. I may not know her name, but the fading memory of her had been a muse for much of my art this past year.

How odd I didn’t recognize her right away. Must be the lighting or this place; both so very different from the flower shop.

Fingers snap in front of my face and I jerk back. My eyes snap to Chet and his shit-eating grin. I don’t crumble under his scrutiny. Nor do I feel shame or guilt. Instead, I stare back with a look that asks why he got all snappy.

“Who is she?”

I shrug. “Don’t know.” Not a lie. We never shared a conversation. Far as I know, she has no clue who I am either. “Looks like someone I’ve met but can’t place.” Half-truth. But that is all I plan to give Chet. Last thing I need is a long list of intrusive questions I have no answers to.

He glances over his shoulder at her profile; too long for my liking. I bite my tongue, stow the possessiveness simmering in my veins, and wait for him to break his stare. Thank goodness, for his sake, I don’t wait long.

“You should talk to her.” I raise my brows at his suggestion. He shakes his head and laughs. “I have no intention of hooking up with anyone while I’m home. Not my style. You, on the other hand, will be around. And she has obviously caught your eye.”

You have no idea.

I pick up my water and sip it to avoid responding for a moment. Before I set the cup down, the server comes to the rescue. She deposits red plastic baskets lined with red-and-white-checkered paper beneath our food. Soon as she steps away, I pluck my burger from the basket and take a monstrous bite.

The entire time we eat, neither of us says a word. I pretend to listen and focus on the crowd favorites. Chet appears to enjoy the entertainment.

While he does, I sneak the occasional glance at my anonymous muse. Take in her smile. The brightness with a hint of shadow. A touch of shade not all eyes would detect.

But I see them all. The light, the dark, the spectrum in between.

There is something beautiful about capturing all the facets of another person. Without words, without touch. Just what the naked eye sees. Translated through the mind of another. An unspoken truth sketched in graphite, scrawled in charcoal or stroked in oils.

Nothing speaks louder than the voice of art. A transcription of one’s mind interpreted differently by another.

Five karaoke performances later, I eat the last of my fries. The server deposits our bills on the table and we pay. Chet has long since moved on from provoking me to talk to the woman. Hallelujah.

“How long are you in town?” I ask as we step into the balmy, late-September air.

“Few more days. If my folks don’t shackle me to the house, maybe we can hang again before I go.”

Neither of us is an idiot. Chet will spend half his time with his parents and the other half catching up with other friends, but I nod anyway.

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