When I'm With You

More often than not, when I’ve hit that spot, not a single thing can tear my focus away. Everything is falling together like magic and the once blank canvas is now beginning to look exactly how I envisioned.

I was right yesterday when I thought this might be my best piece yet.

So much haunting beauty in this large glory.

Heartbreakingly sad, but alight with a hopefulness for something ‘more’ swirling between the brushstrokes.

Today, I had concentrated on the two outstretched arms meeting in the center of the canvas as the focus. Each finger on the opposing hand extended, trying desperately to reach the other, but never getting close enough. Being as close as I am to the piece now, I can see the outline of the man and woman starting to take shape beyond those two hands.

When I’m finished, the abstract piece will be more blur and fade around the edges, the two bodies becoming clearer the closer you get to those two perfectly painted and in focus hands.

This is me.

This is Nate.

It’s us.

So much beauty and pain in one huge piece that I can’t help but think it is eventually my soul stripped bare and splattered against the canvas.

“A Beautiful War,” I declare to myself with a smile, knowing instantly that the title for my piece has been born.

Bam bumps my leg, and I look down, smile still in place. “What’s wrong, handsome man?”

He whines before moving to the door of my house. With a laugh, I clean off my brush and close the tops of my paint before moving around my easel.

“Come on, beast.” I snicker when he starts to wag his tail in excitement.

When I push open the door that leads into my kitchen from my studio, he rushes through the house and I hear him barking at the front.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I complain, almost tripping over the chew toys that he had strewn all over the kitchen floor. “You’re worse than a child, Bam,” I chide with a chuckle, picking up the few toys on my way to the living room.

I can hear him whining as I turn the corner into the living room from the small hallway and come to an abrupt halt when I see the imposing figure sitting in the middle of my couch. His arms are over the back in a relaxed manner, but his face betrays him. I can tell by the tick in his jaw that the calm he is portraying is a mask, but why he’s looking at me with eyes cold and calculating is beyond me.

“Ember,” he drawls, his deep voice thick, the way it always is when he’s angry.

“Levi, hey … I thought you were going to call me later tonight?”

He doesn’t speak, but I watch his jaw clench now as his lips thin. The unease that I had felt when walking in the room grows to a burning ball of anxiety in my gut.

“How was work?” I hedge nervously.

“Fine.”

“Would you like something to drink?” I continue, moving to settle in on the loveseat opposite from him.

He leans forward, dropping his arms from the back of the couch and placing his elbows on his knees, never dropping his eyes from mine. “No.”

“Okay.” I gulp, not understanding his mood today. Hell, I haven’t seen him since the other night, and even though we didn’t leave on good terms, the brief texts that we’ve had since haven’t given me a clue to why this is happening now.

Unless he knows you’re about to break it off.

I ignore the inner voice and will my hands not to start fidgeting as I shift in my seat.

“How was your party?” he questions, deadly calm as he continues to leer at me.

“Good,” I respond. “Well, good until I figured out that the hangovers are never worth the buzz,” I clarify in an attempt to lighten the mood.