The days of my life like a legend: happy birthday redrockcan and hollywobbles
Since it's the 16th here and the 15th in most of the rest of the world, a double whammy with one dripping-with-RCT drabble. Happy birthday redrockcan and hollywobbles!
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He was a painter. She didn’t know anything else about him, but she knew that.
Laura saw him every morning as she walked along the marina on her way to work. He worked on one of the boats, a pretty little thing named Searider Falcon, painting its exterior slowly, lovingly, with art and skill.
Every morning she'd buy a coffee and sit on a bench nearby to watch him work, his arms strong, his fingers nimble. She wondered if it was his boat or if he were a hired hand. She wove stories about him -- he was a retired prize fighter, preparing to sail around the world. He was a frustrated artist who could sell his talents but not his paintings. He was an office drudge grabbing a precious hour in the sunlight.
Searider Falcon. Every morning she would regret that she didn't remember how the story ended. Every afternoon she would resolve to re-read it. Every night she would tumble into bed, exhausted from committee work and speechifying, the unopened book on her pillow.
His work progressed steadily and their days on the docks were numbered. The day came when he was touching up the gold lettering on the stern and she knew that there would be no more painting done.
It was now or never.
She stood, threw away her cup, walked over to his ladder. "Nice job."
He looked up at her, shielding his eyes with a hand, blinding her with his smile. "Thanks."
She crouched down and ran a hand along the boat's side. It was warm and smooth; a pulse ran through it as though it were alive.
The painter reached a hand out to her in invitation. "It's prettier on the inside."
Searider Falcon. Suddenly she remembered the story had a happy end.
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He was a painter. She didn’t know anything else about him, but she knew that.
Laura saw him every morning as she walked along the marina on her way to work. He worked on one of the boats, a pretty little thing named Searider Falcon, painting its exterior slowly, lovingly, with art and skill.
Every morning she'd buy a coffee and sit on a bench nearby to watch him work, his arms strong, his fingers nimble. She wondered if it was his boat or if he were a hired hand. She wove stories about him -- he was a retired prize fighter, preparing to sail around the world. He was a frustrated artist who could sell his talents but not his paintings. He was an office drudge grabbing a precious hour in the sunlight.
Searider Falcon. Every morning she would regret that she didn't remember how the story ended. Every afternoon she would resolve to re-read it. Every night she would tumble into bed, exhausted from committee work and speechifying, the unopened book on her pillow.
His work progressed steadily and their days on the docks were numbered. The day came when he was touching up the gold lettering on the stern and she knew that there would be no more painting done.
It was now or never.
She stood, threw away her cup, walked over to his ladder. "Nice job."
He looked up at her, shielding his eyes with a hand, blinding her with his smile. "Thanks."
She crouched down and ran a hand along the boat's side. It was warm and smooth; a pulse ran through it as though it were alive.
The painter reached a hand out to her in invitation. "It's prettier on the inside."
Searider Falcon. Suddenly she remembered the story had a happy end.