She clung to every word he wrote. A subtle perfume he didn’t recognize until long after he’d walked away from the pages. In the moment, he wouldn’t have said she could have any sort of impact on his work, but as he put down the words and read through the various stories, he understood she was everywhere.
He knew he was limited in his creativity. He drew a great deal from his own life, which was why he tried to live as much as possible. He never turned down an opportunity to travel, or do something new.
She had been a moment in a bar. Ironically, it had been a local place. They’d ended up seated next to one another at the far corner of the long bar. It was quieter there. The friend she was with had left, and he was by himself. It wasn’t his style to strike up conversation with anyone, let alone a woman as he frequented most bars for sustenance and fodder for his work.
She had turned to him and smiled, and from there he’d been lost in her. They’d enjoyed multiple drinks and a plethora of tales. Even to his experience-driven life she was exotic, with a falcon tattooed inside her right wrist flying towards the sunset tattooed on her left, bright red streaks charging through her auburn hair and muddy brown eyes that held mystery and mirth along with flecks of gold.
They had shared stories of travel abroad, loves they’d had and subsequently lost, and their dreams for the future. He was surprised at how much they had in common; even more so at how much of himself he was willing to share with her.
When the lights in the bar flickered the last call, he’d felt a deep sense of sadness and loss followed by a hopeless emptiness spreading within his stomach. She’d said she was leaving on an early flight to London and was headed from the bar to the airport. He felt like he was losing something, but was unaware of what he might ever have had.
He insisted on walking her out and finding her a cab. They had embraced and she’d kissed him on the cheek. He could still feel the cool press of her lips from the warm summer night, even all these months later. When he was frustrated at his desk, he would often trace his fingers over the outline of her lips. She waved from the back of the cab and was gone. He never saw her again, but she was never far from his thoughts.
Over time his work improved. Reviewers no longer found it lacking in substance or texture. There was a new richness to the work, with critics finding it more “real” and relatable. The only criticism was a feeling of incompleteness no one could put their fingers on.
He understood criticism came with any attempt at art. He had been abused for so many years he would never have thought to defend himself to a critic. If he had tried to defend what he had become, he would have told them the stories felt incomplete because he hadn’t yet lived their endings.
