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Never Do Her Justice (standard:romance, 474 words)
Author: kathygAdded: Nov 29 2004Views/Reads: 2031/0Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The writer envies the artist as he watches her through his window as she dances with the paints. The artists watches as the poet as he writes as though his life depends on it. Each one wondering if their creation does justice to their heart's desire...

The scent of turpentine and oil paint drifts through his open window
from his neighbor's house. The artist. Or is that: The Artist? He's not 
sure that it matters. 

He watches her from his window as she dances with the paints. A
passionate love affair blossoms between artist (Artist) and canvas. The 
man envies one: woman or art, he's not sure which. 

He envies the attention she gives to detail when she won't so much as
glance his way. He envies the way the canvas blossoms, sings, yells out 
in pleasure under her touch. He envies the way she adds just a little 
more of a color and he imagines she adds just a little more pressure to 
his leg, hand, the small of his back as she touches him. She pauses as 
if to think : looks over at him : no, looks through him, and then back 
to her canvas. He can't even see what she's painting. She probably 
paints landscapes, mountains, ponds at sunset, bird-filled skies. She 
probably paints herself out of this wretched world. 

Still, he envies her each time he thinks of the poem he starts but never
finishes, the song that never comes out quite right. He knows she 
bubbles over with talent. One, who paints as much as she, must. He 
takes out his notebook and pens a line but stops. Her beauty surpasses 
words. He could never do her justice. 

The scratching noise of pen on paper causes her to raise her head. The
poet sits in his window. Or is that: The Poet? She's sure there is a 
distinction, but can't put her finger on it. 

She watches as he writes as though his very life depends on what he puts
on paper. He makes love to the words that pour out there. The woman 
envies one: man or writing she's not sure which. 

She longs for someone who writes about her as urgently. She envies the
girl who certainly has stolen this poet's heart. She's sure he pens 
words that will be immortalized someday. 

He pauses, looks frustrated and tosses notebook aside. This girl he
writes about: she must have really done a number on him. Imagine, 
turning down such a noble soul. He probably writes himself out of such 
a cruel world. A poet so talented should never be treated that way. 

Still, she envies him each time she thinks of all the half-finished
paintings in her room. She knows he's the most talented poet ever. One 
who writes as much as he does must be. She takes out her paintbrush and 
runs it over his body. She adds a little more color then stops. She 
curses. His beauty lies beyond the oils. She looks around the room at 
forty-seven half-finished paintings of him. She could never do him  

@2004 Kathryn Gabrielle 


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