Specks of Paint

a story
2015-05-21 07:13:44,
2016-02-29 19:58:49
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      "Tasty, nutty brews! Strong stouts! Fruity ales!" 

      A local brewer was peddling his latest batch in a large cart filled with bottles.

      What Elin really wanted was a strong coffee, but she dare not leave her canvas now. She was painting the ocean, crashing against the large silver and brown rocks that stretched as far as she could see.

      The vendor walked over to her, "What brings you to Baerú young lady?"

      "Is it so obvious? Is it the size of the antlers?"

      "No no, that's a cliché way to guess. Not many people appreciate the coast who live by it day in and day out."

      "Yes, well..." She blushed, this was the most she'd spoken to anyone all weekend and this man had noticed her art, "It's just so mesmerizing, the motion of the ocean"

      "Right you are," he said. He reached into his cart and pulled out a couple bottles, and hopped over the fence to walk over to her. "Here. I was saving these for my breaks and I'm taking one now."

      "Thank you," she said.

      They opened their bottles, and still freezing, she drank the cold ale. They sat on the large boulder behind her setup.

      He pointed at her painting with his bottle, "So, were these folks here earlier?"

      "Oh, no. I don't like to paint real people much."

      "But you felt the need to paint them in anyway?"

      "Well, the shore is alive. It wouldn't be right to make it look empty."

      "And they're just from your imagination?"

      "I guess so."

      "I like how that one is fighting with his sister."

      "Oh, I thought they were lovers holding hands."

      "No, no, you see Jørgen here, if you don't mind me naming them..." he looked to her a moment.

      She realized he was looking for approval and nodded abruptly.

      "Jørgen is trying to steal a ring that his sister, Larissa,'s boyfriend gave her. He's nosy because he cares, but she just wants it back, so they are fighting over it."

      Elin giggled, "That's quite a lot of information to read from a few centimetres of paint, sir."

      "You must know, being a painter, how much meaning is in each speck of paint."

      She sipped her beer, forgetful of the cold breeze, "Yes, paint is a lot like people."

      "Well, I must be back at it." he said and stood up.

      "I never caught your name?" she inquired.

      "Jørgen Lund."

      "I'd love it if you'd join me, tonight, at the cafe on Beverdensen street; perhaps tell me more about this sister of yours?"

      "I'd be delighted, miss."