Every Night (Brush of Love 1)

“How so?” I asked.

“Well, I sat down a few nights ago and drew something other than a blueprint.”

“Bryan, that’s awesome. What did you draw? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I don’t mind. I drew this geometric design. It starts as a square in the middle and slowly spirals out to the edges of the paper.”

“You seem to have a fascination with those. Could I see it sometime?” I asked.

“Sure. If I can remember to bring it by the site, I will.”

I was absolutely delighted. The idea of inspiring someone already with my art and the gallery told me I was doin

g the right thing, that despite the rocky road with my parents and all it took to get here, I’d made the right decision with my life.

I was so thrilled, my cheeks were beginning to ache with my smiling.

“So, you keep saying blueprints. I think you mentioned something when we first met about architecture?” I asked.

“Yep. It’s what I studied in trade school. I’m much more focused on the construction end of things right now than the architecture of it. Most of the residential homes we build are cookie-cutter style homes, so I draw three basic layouts for each massive project and that’s about it.”

“Well, that’s some artistic expression at least,” I said.

“Yeah but not like drawing and shading. That taps into another part of me that I don’t get to express often.”

“Well, I for one am glad you’re expressing it now and that you’re sharing it with me. It makes me happy. More than you’ll ever know.”

His eyes shot up to me, and I couldn’t help losing myself in them. The smile that crossed his face twinkled the small speckles of hazel I’d just discovered in his eye color. There wasn’t a thing about him that wasn’t beautiful, that wasn’t somehow tragic and yet full of life. He was the perfect canvas and the perfect subject.

I wanted to draw all of him.

He was the type of subject you could use for an entire gallery opening. An artist could fill the walls and line entire buildings with photographs and pictures of him. Every angle, every color, every contrast, and every emotion screamed and clawed its way toward a canvas.

It was like his presence was meant to be someone’s muse.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

It wasn’t until his voice ripped through my mind that I realized I was staring at his geometric tattoo.

“Yes,” I said breathlessly. “Very much so. I’ve been enraptured with all your tattoos, actually. It’s a form of art I’ve never been able to express. Don’t have a steady enough hand to tattoo, nor do I have the ability to choose something and stick with it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t even choose a hair color, Bryan. How am I supposed to choose a tattoo that I can just stick with for the rest of my life?” I asked.

“Good point. You could get a sleeve, but get it in stages,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, most people who have sleeves of tattoos didn’t go in with a sleeve in mind. They started with one image, then found another one they liked. They put that image alongside the original one, and it just morphs.”

“I’d run out of canvas. I’d end up covering every inch of my body in tattoos,” I said, laughing. “Could you imagine that? Me with a body full of tattoos?”

“You could change your hair color to match any tattoo you wanted,” he said, grinning.

“Ha. Ha. Ha. Joke’s on me. Got it. Yeah, I’m way too indecisive for a tattoo. I actually really admire people who can get them. It means they made a decision and stuck to it. Do you do your own tattoos?”

“I design them, yeah.”