one girl for sundays.
When Lea first reached my door, I thought she was a child in an older body; she looked lost and hesitant, ashamed or scared to ask for help, and when I opened the door with a smile, offering, she didnt take it. Another thought, no candy from strangers, whisked through my head. I tried to usher her in but she waited, looking at the doorstep. She stepped in only after she made a decision to trust herself, with her long skirt strewing about her ankles.
Weeks passed, and every Sunday afternoon Lea came; her entrance never wavering, but the molting of her clothing growing more comfortable. She relaxed onto my canvas; the loops of her hips and the edges of her elbows, the roundness in her cheeks and the lines around her lips translated purely to my brush. Something about her, the soft lights and her skin, let me think that each quick render would be my masterpiece, the one that would leave me empty and famous. I exulted in this girl and her prettiness and this Sunday and my art,