paint palettes and cameras

pride

Oakley leads me around town. Our first stop is at the park bench, where the leaves on the trees sway, and the grass pulls gently from the ever-so-cold wind. Before we got there, however, he had me change into something more uplifting. A tan blazer and black turtle neck, along with dress pants and brown shoes. My hair sways in circles, accumulating as the cherry blossom trees around me and parts my bangs against my forehead. I run my fingers through my hair, smiling into the camera as the air blows it in circles. A small giggle exerts from my breath, as I begin dancing graciously on the pavement. He takes photos of the little elegance that my feet withhold. Tap, tap, tap. The gentle clicks and clacks from my shoes bounce like mini trampolines off my toes. I swing my arms above my head and continue to freely and gracefully dance.

Our next stop is the coffee shop. Outside of the shop, I hold a pumpkin latte in my hands as the camera comes up close to my face. The shop is faded in the back, with people's small heads turning toward the menu. Others hop on bikes, and some hold thin leashes with small dogs. However, the focus remains on my eyes. Dark brown, with my chocolate, bangs swift across my head, and the lattes light smoke rising from the pumpkin delight. I put the coffee on a little table and stand on the light clean pavement as Oakley instructs me to stand with my legs slightly apart, my hip turned, and my hand resting upon it tilting my head to the side and away. The shot is taken from the ground, as well as medial.

Our last stop is the art and history museum which is not too far away from the coffee shop. As we lightly float down the road, I stand on long stairs and rest against marble arches that crawl overhead.  Inside, I take pictures with mythology heads, and for others, I place my hands upon paintings where the flowers appear to be my location. Our last photo in the museum consists of the overhead beauty of angels and people, all painted to perfection across the dome above us. For this picture, I lay down in the middle of the floor, while Oakley takes a photo from a height above with statues around me, and one from the ground with a side view of my face, and an above view of the dome. After all the photos are taken, I and Oakley spend about two hours admiring the museum and its tranquility.

I laugh as I take a sip of my latte, sitting on the long stairs outside. "That was fun," My heart beat faster when I looked at Oakley, who was also smiling as his eyes were focused upon his camera. "It was certainly amazing.." he says, his voice trailing off as he scrolls through the photos. "And these photos, they are gorgeous," he says with such uplifting air and looking into my eyes. "But they wouldn't have been so gorgeous if you weren't in them," he smiles with closed lips, as his glasses begin to slowly slip down his nose, and stop. My heart burns with adoration. "Aw, thank you, Oak," I giggle. "We should get back to the school, so I can print these photos," he says, slinging it over his waist and standing up, offering his hand to mine. I take it, and he helps me up as we begin walking down the street. As we walk, I begin to think about everything that just took place. How Oakley offered for me to be in the photos, how he called me gorgeous, but most significantly how we practically just went on a date together. It makes my heart beat insanely, and I ponder whether or not he considers it a date as well. My pondering over the thought becomes intense, as I imagine his chocolate brown hair, and his long arms in that gray sweater and collared shirt underneath, as he holds the camera up to my face. I feel something light brush up against my hand, but I discard it. The touch comes once again, however, and again. I touch it back, lightly, until I feel long, smooth cold fingers take them gently, and hold my hand with protection and sincerity. My cheeks burn red as I glance below; My hand is in Oakley's, and his heart is certainly in mine.

We arrive back at school, and I press the door closed behind me. I turn to see Oakley printing out our photos, and I look at the time on my cell phone. 6:13 PM. I gasp slightly. "It's around six," I say to Oakley with slight hesitation. "I should get going-" "Stay." He cuts off, and turns his head to me, along with his full body, leaning against the printer's desk. He pauses for a moment before he lets the word slip from his lips again. "Stay," he says again, with eager determination in his eyes. My cheeks burn red, and my eyes go slightly wide. "Sure," I say, my words shallow as I gulp, and my voice becomes dry. He places all of the photos in a folder, and labels it "M". "Come," he says, walking toward the door. "I want to show you something."

We travel down the school's corridors until we reach the stairs. Letting our feet tread downward, he opens a door. He switches on a light, and the room is large and beautiful—filled with photographs larger than I could ever imagine. I walk over to one on the wall, it's black and white tint is vivid and bold. It's his face, and his deep black turtle neck along with his circle glasses that are slightly slid down his nose. I understand why they do that now. His eyes pierce into mine from the photograph, and it's personal and embracing. His hair is parted from his forehead, and strands stick out looking slightly wet and jet. My heart collapses into my stomach. "Wow," is the only word that escapes small from my thin, soft pink lips. He walks over with his dark coat open over his gray sweater, the white-collar underneath sticking out loose. He stands facing the photograph, next to me, eyes focused on it permanently. "It is my most proud piece," he says gently. "I keep all of my work down here, and like your tiny room, I go here to do the same," he says, eyes still focused on the photograph of him. Except, there is no narcissism within Oakley. He is simply proud of his work—and looking at the photograph of himself must remind him of the man he is. The man who came so far with the work he does. It is pride much deserved. Well earned.

His head slightly turns down and to me, chuckling under his breath as his eyes stay on the floor. He brings them up to gaze at me gently. A light smile stays plastered on his face when he speaks. "Thank you, Mable," he faces toward the door now. I breathe in deeply, my eyes gravitating toward the floor in front of me. He opens the door, but pauses, hesitating on something as his head tilts downward and his chin points to my flushed face. He chuckles, eyes glancing to the floor, only to make their way back up to mine from his stance as he clears his throat. "And your masterpieces, I presume—you will show me to them?" He smiles, pondering on the arrival of my response. "I don't have...any masterpieces," I say, slightly smiling as my chin points downward, my eyes trailing off in slight submission. I could never compare to his works. I am just a student who enjoys art and English, the library's basement couldn't ever compare to his room of photographs. He turns his body and rests it against the wall, his arms falling to his sides. "I know you do," he says, knowing of things that I have not known he has known of. "I've seen your masterpiece—and it's absolutely beautiful." His eyes travel up and down my body, ending with my eyes. I gulp, as my voice becomes meek and my throat begins to dry up. "Um, okay," I say, my eyes peering downward as my red cheeks that are stained with rose petals paint across more vividly. I head toward the door as he holds it for me, and my feet dance ever so slightly across the hallway.

Passing my infamous closet, we head toward the library.