Field Notes ▪︎ Prose (2)

7. Late breakfast

I can see her vastness in the studio on 5th street near The Frenchday a restaurant with delicacies so well made caged on a plate: a lemon éclair and a dark arabica coffee flavored Macaron I took a habit to have every Sunday at 7:30 pm when I was picking her up and I always felt at fault for scrambling them in my mouth turning that elegancy into wet substance; nothingness, yet when I grab my girl from her waist half of me dissappears and she had filled me with everything eager and nothing is ephemeral.

I'd ask her about how her painting is going and she'd describe how the degradation of colors in the matter of painting human flesh is tricky but it always comes easier with the right base colors then she pinces her lips and adjusts her tote bag over the thick coat of the denim jacket, hands covered in white, blue, violet paint but mostly red then she dropped in a rapid short parade with her hands describing the studio. Confined in four walls each cube of its surface covered in stretches of color anticipation of thoughts, rage and about that line written on one of the corners cornerstone of some four on four pink tinted window there in black spay-pain 'art never lies'. It was her miracle as if fortunes could have been found between a mess on a wall over a more artistically creative piece of muse waiting just for her to climpse to have meaning in a sea of poetic interpretation but I think it wasn't the quote neither the way who ever wrote it extravagantly with a careless swing of homemade coal paint hoping to be remember with an even more grubby initial sign on the left side.

It was since the beginning her even before she decided to rent the studio for the evening sometimes the nights too she mused herself without knowing her passion moved the frozen the time in all its extention and it all talked back to her in a curve of old pipes she decided to sketch on our way to a mutual friend's bar party, in a father running to his boy after he fell off a new bike she smiled and averted her gaze to the heart ache tattoo on her inside arm parallel to the elbow she pinchs it then caress the red mark as if to remind someone that no one can rob her healing.
She'd ask me if I had lunch today and how she'd like me to have more days to wake up with her semi-late and have brunch in someplace known in serving shots of fruits and vitamins which I respond to with an excuse because truly and she knows it too even if we don't say it aloud I'd like to have her or my honeycomb in the late morning or any time after too and I want her smile to be my coffee my curtains in bed and the muse to normal me.