The Muse

            The day was perfect, and people were out in droves.  The Square was filled with families out for an afternoon of fun, couples walking hand in hand beside the fountain, joggers out for a run, jugglers tossing balls and bowling pins around for the public's amusement, college kids throwing Frisbees or kicking hackeysacks, and animal lovers with their pets in tow.  Anybody who had even the slightest interest in being outside today had no excuse for staying indoors.  It was gorgeous.      

            The sun peeked out from behind the clouds, making it bright enough to see each and every nuance in the brush strokes on Gibson's canvas, but not so bright that you had to squint to observe the finer details.  A gentle breeze blew out of the east, keeping it cool enough to be enjoyable, but not so brisk as to blow all of the supplies around.  Leaves skittered across the cobblestones, making faint scratching sounds as they passed.  Gibson lifted his brush, studied the couple sitting before him, and then paused.  This was all perfect...and yet so wrong.  Norman Rockwell would have had a field day with these two.  Gibson was merely annoyed with them, although he knew he had no good reason to be. 

            Just looking at them was to study the definition of puppy love.  The girl was all doe-eyed and fawning over the boy, sneaking glances at him when she thought he wasn't looking.  The boy, by contrast, was trying to play it cool but obviously just as excited as she was.  They touched each other far too much, held hands, and gave each other quick pecks on the cheek.  It was all a little sickening, but it was also what brought in the money.  Gibson tried to paint them realistically, not allowing any of his jaded skepticism to find its way into the portrait.  It was a difficult thing to manage.  Most of the world would have seen a happy portrait of a couple in love.  Gibson saw what he wanted the most yet couldn't have.              

            Street musicians played songs everyone had heard dozens of times before.  A couple of dancers with a thumping boombox performed moves that looked worthy of any contortionist.  Couples scattered here and there had blankets spread out for picnics or a lazy afternoon spent napping and cuddling.  Stealthy birds swooped in every now and again to take their chances at some irresistible morsel that someone had left behind.  All in all, it was a happy place, a place that should have been filled with smiles and laughter.  Gibson couldn't bring himself to smile or laugh.  To him, this was like being trapped in one of the nine circles of Dante's version of Hell.   

            If anything, painting here in the square served as a cruel reminder of what his life was like.  He wasn't in love, had no prospects for love, and spent most of his days in solitude, save for the occasional customers who wandered over and paid him to paint them.  Customers like these two.  They were sickening in their passion.  

            Gibson studied them carefully.  Even to the untrained eye, it was obvious that they were in love.  They made eye contact frequently and smiled without ceasing.  They laughed, touched each other comfortably, held hands for a few moments only to break contact then grabbed for each other again.  They had hope in their eyes, and that hope seeped into their words, their gestures, their every movement.  They were happy and had a world of possibilities ahead of them.  Gibson wondered why he hadn't been as lucky.  He also wondered how long their perfect little house of cards would remain standing before a brisk wind brought it crashing down.  It was a fatalistic way of viewing the world.  In Gibson's mind, however, it was realistic.   

            The girl was petite, brunette, and stunning.  She had an illuminating smile, long lustrous hair, deep brown eyes that a man could drown in, an infectious laugh, and a body that was cute in some ways and extremely sexy in others.  Her boyfriend, by comparison, was ordinary, slightly underwhelming in some ways, overweight with a protruding belly, and not at all handsome.  He had definitely dated outside his circle, yet to judge by the girl's reactions to him, she was completely smitten.  Looking at the two of them, Gibson couldn't understand how a guy like that had managed to hook a woman so beautiful.  It was one of the mysteries of the world, yet it was something he had seen time and time again.  Average Joe nabs Cinderella.

            Gibson considered himself slightly above average, certainly better than this guy.  He managed to stay in decent shape, ate well most of the time, had a face most women would classify as handsome although not so much that he could have made the cover of GQ.  Yet, he couldn't find a woman as beautiful as this one to love him.  He had even tried to convince himself that there might be a woman who was beautiful on the inside who could love him.  Yet, even the ugly ones with great personalities had evaded him too.  It was enough to make a single man with no prospects extremely depressed.        

            “Stay still, you two,” he told them as they kept stealing kisses from each other when they thought he wasn't looking.  They giggled and froze again while he painted.  He dipped his brush into the colors on his easel, mixing new shades, darkening old ones, creating new colors where they hadn't existed before.  Those colors, he thought, were like love.  You could take two people who were their own individual shades of blue or red or green or whatever and mix them into something completely new.  The color that they made together was what counted.  That color was the essence of them, the hue that represented the love they shared. 

            Looking at these two, Gibson reasoned that the shade they created as a couple was brilliant, lively, and deep.  This completely blending of personalities, shades, textures, dreams, and aspirations was what distinguished a gorgeous color from an ordinary one.  It was what differentiated an average couple from the couple that everyone envied.  This couple, he knew, would make everyone's bad list.  They were amazing.         

            On the surface, Gibson didn't act as though anything was wrong.  He couldn't.  His livelihood was dependant on love.  Love gave him a way to pay his bills.  He couldn't simply turn his back on love even though it had turned its back on him.  Yet, that didn't mean that he wasn't dying inside on a daily basis, frightened and depressed at the thought of being perpetually alone.

            The people who normally wanted their portraits painted were couples like this who were caught up in the excitement, trapped in the moment like insects in amber, wanting to preserve this happiness for posterity.  Rarely, if ever, did Gibson paint an individual.  No, they always came in couples.  Like these two. 

            God, in all His wisdom, had seen fit to give man a mate.  He even had the compassion and the foresight to give every animal on Noah's ark a partner.  Yet, He hadn't seen fit at this time to bless Gibson was one of his own.  And so, he was forced to live vicariously through the relationships of others.  It was a lonely existence.          

            Trying not to wallow in his own melancholy, Gibson lifted the brush, dabbed some paint on the bristles, and went back to work.  He was good at what he did, and within a few minutes, he had created a portrait of the lovers which transcended average street art.  His talent was deserving of a higher calling than this, but at the moment, this was all he could find.  So he painted lovers and would do so until some other opportunity presented itself. 

            Sometimes, he considered graffiti, commercial painting, comic strips, or even chalk drawings on sidewalks as an alternative to what he did.  Yet, nothing captured the depth and substance of a person like oils and canvas.   

            Even given the way he felt today, the painting was good.  It was a caricature of hope and passion that captured the essence of the two lovers.  None of the gloom and doom he felt inside showed up in the vibrant portrait.  Anyone who happened to look at what he painted might have imagined that they heard birds chirping or choirs singing.  It was a happy representation of happy lives.  It was the kind of portrait that would gain him referrals and bring him new customers.  Being able to put his own feelings aside was the very thing that kept his bank account in the black.  If he had painted in accordance to the way he felt, nobody would have hired him.     

            After signing the painting in the bottom right hand corner, he summoned the lovers over to have a look.  They were stunned and speechless.  The boy put his arm around the girl, and she giggled with glee.   

            “It's beautiful,” the girl said.  “I love it.”

            “You are very talented,” the boy said, giving her a kiss on the cheek.  “I mean that.  Great work.”

            “You both were very inspiring,” Gibson lied.  “It's obvious that the two of you are good together.  Now, we have proof of that to last for eternity.  You can show this to your kids in twenty years.”

            “Kids,” the girl said, mouthing the word like a magic incantation.  “I would like children one day.”

            “And I'm sure you will have them,” Gibson said, patting her shoulder and then shaking her boyfriend's hand.  “Good luck to the both of you.  Thank you for letting me paint you.”

            “We've got friends,” the boy said.  “We will be sure to send them your way.”

            Gibson nodded, needing the money but hoping that the boy wouldn't follow up on his promise. 

            He was glad when they finally paid him and went on their way.  Emotionally defeated, he considered packing up and going home for the day, but he knew that he wouldn't make any money that way.  He needed to work.  Heading back to an empty apartment would be even worse than staying here. 

            He decided to take a short break and try to relax.  He walked over to the fountain in the center of the square.  It was a big, marble production that had been fashioned in the shape of an angel with its wings outstretched.  In one hand, the angel held a sword.  In the other, a scroll.  At regular intervals, water sprayed from the tips of the angels wings, creating a rain-like effect. 

            Gibson studied the angel and wondered if such creatures were real.  If so, was there an angel out there somewhere watching over him?  It seemed unlikely.

            Although Gibson wasn't religious, he couldn't help wondering about the nature of God.  Maybe there was a supreme being up there who was watching over him.  Maybe there were angels like this one who carried out His will.  Maybe all he needed to do was ask for what he wanted and God would hear him.

            “I don't want to be alone anymore,” Gibson whispered, unwilling to look up at the stone angel.  “Please bring me someone.  Please.”

            Immediately, he felt stupid.  How had he gotten to the point where his desperation was powerful enough to prompt him to pray to statues of seraphim?  “Get a grip, loser,” he told himself.   

            For a moment, he stared at his reflection in the pool and wondered what was wrong with him.  He wasn't ugly by any stretch of the imagination.  He had rugged good looks, hardened features that could soften under the right conditions, a head full of wavy dark hair with faint traces of gray at the temples, and a decent enough body.  He wasn't going to become a Calvin Klein model any time soon, but he was good looking in a non-traditional sort of way.  Surely, there was someone out there for him.