Portrait of a Swallow

Yellow Ochre

10 months prior

When she reaches the kitchen in the morning, a bowl of rice and egg sitting on the kitchen countertop, unattended. She looks around to see if it's anyone's to claim but then smiles to herself as she takes the steaming bowl in her hand, scooping up a large portion of her piping hot rice in her mouth. Puffs of steam escape her lips as she squeals in delight, looking down at the bowl and muttering to herself 'how can a simple bowl of rice and egg taste so good?'

Through the doorway of the kitchen, he observes her from behind, a ghost of a smile flickering on his face as she devours the bowl he laid out for her.

**

Entering the studio for the first time, she's nervous, not knowing what to expect after last night. She laid in her bed the night before, the obscurity blinding her, but her mind reflected on the confusion marring his handsome features as he recoiled his hand from her face. Taking her own hand, soft and delicate, she placed her palm upon her cheek, gliding the smooth fingers down her jaw, imagining if his fingers would be as soft, until she stops, thinking of the palms of the older man, wondering if the painter's hand held the same malice. Something about the way he gazed at her, though, the manner in which his presence enveloped her like a blanket of security, told her otherwise. Bringing her hand down to her chest, she could feel the slight quickening pace of her beating organ, and as she rubbed soothing circles into her chest, she found slumber for the night.

She finally saw the painter's workspace, his stool and easel at one end, while a small table and chair were at the other end. The chandelier was a bright gold, the candles lit even in the daylight, further illuminating the room with a fluorescent glow. The canvas on the easel had an image of a field, a crooked tree at the forefront, though it was only halfway done.

She waits for him, by the window, gazing at the clouds above her, the wisps of precipitation holding a multitude of colors floating through the sky, the shapes molded into whatever her imagination could conjure. He comes up behind her, the ever-quiet man, and doesn't dare speak a word, his presence marked solely by the scent of his natural musk and the paint emanating from his clothes that fill her nostrils, his breathing warm in her ear.

"What are you looking at?" He probes, the smooth baritone of his voice breaking her reverie.

Turning to face him, she sees his face peering through the window, curious to know what held the young maiden's rapt attention.

"The clouds, sir. I was just observing the colors of the clouds," she responded, their faces only inches apart, as she watched his profile intently gaze at the very same tufts.

"And what colors do you see?" he asks, genuinely curious as to what her eyes observed. As he shifts his gaze towards hers, she couldn't meet his eyes, the scrutiny he held her under yesterday unbearable, his gaze so earnest, she diverted her attention back at the clouds before answering

"White," she starts, hesitating slightly, feeling the intensity of his gaze on her face, a blush threatening to spill, exposing the vulnerability she feels under his stare, before continuing with

"Blue..."

"Gray..."

"and Yellow."

Through her periphery she can see the dimples start to peek out of his angular face, a small smile blooming as he watches her with wonderment, her keen eye rivaling his own artistic lens.

She catches his smile, the tiny flicker of his lips as he looks upon her with amazement causing her own to upturn into a subtle grin, but with her, her emotions are like a raging hurricane, and before she knows it, she's beaming due to his subtle encouragement, her eyes turning into those lovely crescent moons. Her bold expressiveness flusters him, the wide smile plastered on her face a direct consequence of his words, as he suddenly breaks her gaze and fidgets as he fixates his stare on the checkers on the tile floor, his fingers ruffling through his hair nervously.