If the Painting had Been Real...

    If the painting had been real, and he had been a simple portrait, things would have been different. If I had, for a few moments, forgotten that my painting was just ink and canvass, I would have attempted to jump in, to roll blissfully in the green fields expertly mixed with forest green oil paint #9 and Cray-Pas emerald gold pastel 12. I would have closed my eyes—my perfectly tear-free, dry eyes. After all, there would have no longer been tears if he was just a portrait. No…not one tear would come as I stared up at the wispy clouds I had carefully sketched across the canvass blue sky. I would have walked over to the museum way in the back of the painting, hiding behind the lean poplar trees. I would have strolled right into the sun-lit gallery and glanced at his portrait, tilting my head professionally, saying, “Yes, excellent shading…looks so human…what a handsome, kind face. But he is just a piece of paper.”
    Paper—you can rip it up and throw it out. Love is not quite as disposable. But as it were, my painting was only two dimensional…I would not fit there. He, however, was perfectly real.
    A touchable, lovable, breathable real. He was one hundred percent, absolutely genuine carbon-based 160 pounds of human—three dimensions in all its sordid splendor. Green and brown northern lights danced in his eyes. Golden rays of sunlight seemed to have been caught in his hazelnut hair. Any more pleasant metaphors describing his appearance might make me sick. So, I’ll stop. But once, these things had really been so essential to my happiness. And I’ll admit… it wasn’t so long ago.
    Then there had been that day. I had been caught in the little wonderland of my painting, scrutinizing every color and blend. He too was absorbed in his canvass, capturing a wild ship tossed on the sea, foam and darkness clashing with a white lightening sky. We were silent, as we usually were when we both had paintings to complete on a deadline. The silence and the smiles had been a language. Laughter mixed with the blue paint smudges on a cheek or fingerprints forever imprisoned on the acrylics that would hang on someone’s wall. Everywhere I looked, I seemed to see the world as an artist for the first time—and whenever I thought of myself as an artist…I thought of him. He was the only person who believed in my art and I was the only one who believed in his—we belonged to each others’ paintings. I had understood him perfectly, and—I had thought—that he had understood me.
    The summer had been too much work…but the more work we had, the closer we became. I embraced more work. I loved his drawings as much as my own. I loved the way that he looked at the world and then captured it on paper with a steady, ever-adept hand. I began to notice too, that maybe I didn’t only love what the hand created…I loved the hand. I loved all attached to the hand too. Maybe, just maybe, I loved him.
    I expected him to one day draw my portrait. I don’t know why, but I thought that, if he ever tried to confine my features to paper, and succeeded, I would simply unleash my caged-in feelings, unlock the beast and let it loose. We made a deal, I’ll make his portrait and he’ll make mine. My portrait was completed. My eyes traveled over the curves of the skin and the shadows. It was obviously me. The eyes were mine. The hair was mine. The mouth was mine. But something wasn’t mine. I couldn’t quite point it out, but I felt that whatever it was, it should be glimmering behind the brown eyes, or hidden in the curl of the mouth. But I hugged him and told him it was the loveliest thing anyone had ever drawn for me.
    Then I began the task of sketching him. As I stared at him for over an hour, a blend of silent conversations and sporadic laughter kept the room alive. I threw myself into the task to finish, the sole sound of pencil softly scratching upon the white surface and penetrating it, the feeling of fatigue coursing through my fingers and my heart as I struggled to capture the eyes that had captured me. When I was finished, I would tell him. I would be a brave criminal and confess my crime. I finished, and showed it to him. I knew I wasn’t even half as good as he was, but I felt that I had given something to this piece that I had never given to a picture before. He smiled and said that he loved it. If only the word “it” had been replaced with my name. He then gave me the look.
    I had always feared him giving me that look—a there’s-something-I-should-tell-you-but-I-won’t…sort of sideways glance. It was almost flirty. It had made me uncomfortable when I hadn’t known him so well—before he seemed to see me differently than anyone else ever did. Now, I was positive our feelings were the same.
    He had come close to me for a second as we both looked at the portrait. He raised his head and looked straight into my eyes. He was so close to my face, I held my breath. There are some times in life where you become very aware of your breathing patterns and heartbeat, as they become faster and faster. For those few seconds I worried my breathing would come to an unexpected halt and I would miss this. I honestly thought he would kiss me. But instead he unlocked his eyes from mine and looked down at the portrait.
    I was about to open my mouth…I had to keep my promise to tell him. It was ridiculous to keep this all to myself. But he spoke first, “I have to tell you something. I don’t know but it’s been on my mind. I have to get it off my chest and you’ve been such a great friend to me.”
    I told him of course, he could tell me anything.
    “Well, you see there’s this girl…who I’m interested in…”
    Inside I was practically bursting with happiness, he was speaking of me. He was looking at me in that way that had once made me uncomfortable.
    “And I don’t know what to do. I really like her, maybe…I love her…but don’t tell anyone…I’m not quite comfortable with people knowing my feelings.”
    I told him my lips were sealed, not that there was anyone I could tell anyway…but he was shy and withdrawn like that concerning relationships and such touchy topics, just like me.
    “Well, I’m not so good with this whole romance thing…it’s not exactly something I’m used to. I just draw. So, since you’re a girl…”
    He hesitated, gave me the look again, and continued.
    “Um, I sort of thought romance…stuff would be built into your genes.”
    I told him that just because I was a girl, that didn’t mean I knew anything about romance. And…well, I didn’t. But I said I did know one thing: everyone just wants to know the truth. So he should tell this so called “mystery” girl what he feels like.
I continued, looking up right into his eyes, “It’s just going to kill you if you don’t tell her. I would tell someone I really liked…or loved…about my feelings as soon as I could.”
    I am such a hypocrite.
    “But it’s not so simple. What happens…after that?” he murmured with flash of frustration in his eyes. This was bothering him more than I expected.
I continued despite his dismay, “Then, if you tell her, and she likes you back, well it’s pretty simple…you kiss her!”
    He stared at the painting as if he was arguing with himself inside, biting his lips in thought. “And what if she doesn’t…doesn’t want me.”
    “She will,” I answered firmly and steadily as I tilted my head to the side and softened my eyes.
    “How do you know for sure?”
    "Because…I know…I just know.”
    Because I know you so well, and I know what I want, seemed to whisper within me. It was one of those sentences within me that I knew would unfortunately never reach my throat.
    Then he looked up at me with a boyish smile and sighed. “All right, I trust you more than anyone. I really do….and I take your advice seriously. Okay…well…I’m gonna tell her. Thank you, so much.”
    Now it was time for him to lean over and say “and you’re the girl, silly!” and then kiss me. But he didn’t…he looked out the window at two angry birds fighting over a tree branch.
    So I opened my big mouth, “So do I know this girl?” I was so innocent and neutral. Someone should give me Emmy, I thought.
    He looked up at me and his face got red. “Well…”
    You can trust me, I said, I want to know.
    “Well, she’s talented and kind…and well I think she’s beautiful. And her name is…”
    He stopped and I made believe I wasn’t too interested in the one last word that could change our relationship.
    “Her name is Anne.”

    I looked up at him quickly. For a moment I was almost tempted to stare into his eyes like a homeless dog and cry, “But my name isn’t Anne.”
    But then the stupidity hit me full force and I diverted my eyes downward immediately, staring at my lap in concentration as my mouth muttered silent words inside. I am a fool. I am such a fool. What is wrong with me? It became the broken soundtrack of my mind—replaying and echoing through the empty corridors of my head over and over and over. But I can’t help being a fool!
    As the manners of society have brainwashed into all children, I suddenly remembered to keep up my disguise. Disguises are more acceptable than exposing your exoskeleton. You have to cover your wounds with band-aids before anyone can see the blood. You’re not supposed to show emotion to things like this. At the moment…I begged to differ. My cloudy brown eyes were now staring right into his own hazel spheres. I wanted to let him see a tear…I begged that the tears would just come. But at the moment, they chose to follow society’s standard instead of their master. God, I whispered to myself, I don’t even have control over my own tears.
      I quickly unfocused my eyes as I decided to shield all emotion, blurring out all that was around me, and I concentrated hard on the tossing ship painting.
      I muttered, with a feigned smile and my eyes jumping from his face to the painting, “Oh…I’m so happy for you….things will work out. I promise.”
      I was not only a hypocrite; I was a liar…an extremely good one too. What an actress I was! A soap opera star stuck in a feel-good comedy. I suddenly felt myself subconsciously screaming that Anne should just go away forever and leave us here alone. I imagined her stuck on the tossing ship in the painting he had so carefully created. I felt a little guilty that I was wishing a cold watery death upon a girl I had never even met…but I didn’t feel that bad and the guilt only lasted momentarily.
    “Oh, thank you! I love you…you’re such a good friend!” he replied and opened his arms towards me in a hug.
    The “I love you” really stung. The word “friend” had never dripped into my ears with so caustic a poison.
    “I love you too,” I replied weakly, wanting to cry on his shoulder as he held me in a hug that could only be between friends. That wasn’t the “I love you” I had planned to say to him.
    I love you, I whispered quite differently inside, but it never reached my lips. It had been caught in one of the nets positioned deep down my throat—put there for the single purpose of catching such insurgent morsels of unwanted speech. It was there to catch the truths and keep them lingering and fading in that darkness forever. I let go of him and stared at the portrait of myself on the table. What was missing was so obvious now…and I knew it would always hide behind the invincible curtain of that skin. I was already building my fort.
But there would be no tears. No tears. I will never tell him…I will never tell him.

    Everything could have been so different…if only my painting had been real, and he had just been a portrait.