She loved to paint the art teacher.
She didn't know why. She just did.
Maybe it's the way he talked about art, with such passion and grace. It could also be the way he walks with so much confidence around the room, getting to know all of his students. That's why she always went to school at 4:30 a.m., just to be able to watch the art teacher. They'd both arrive at school at the same time and they always talked. She learned so much about him in a matter of weeks. She learned he wasn't much older than she was, maybe 5 or 6 years in the least. He'd always ask about her day and she'd ask his, a short but meaningful exchange between them two. She sat by the window of room 238âthe perfect place to view him, eagerly watching and waiting for him to enter the class just like how she did the first time she laid her eyes on it. Black, peach, white, and red. Those were the colors of the art teacher every time he arrived. She has them memorized the moment she laid her eyes on him.
She loved talking to him, the way his mouth would curl up every time he speaks and suddenly, she wasn't coming to school at 4:30 for the sun rise anymore. She stopped painting sunrises, much to the sun's dismay but she had found a new inspiration. She could never really explain how she felt about the the art teacher...that was until December 23 on a Wednesday morning.
He had taken the class to the Metropolitan Museum. The whole time he talked, she watched him from a far while the other students took notes. It wasn't easy to concentrate on what he was saying about Claude Monet but she tried her best so she could maybe impress him some day. Afterwards, he ordered the class to spread out and write an essay about their chosen piece of artwork.
She aimlessly walked around for a minute, watching her classmates rush to whichever painting they found. She looked around some more, passing by works of Picasso and Braque but only few caught her attention. That was until her eyes found the works of Peter Rubens. She squinted her eyes to get a closer lookâobserving the brush strokes, the mixture of colors and how smooth the texture was before going to the next paintingâone by Rembrandt.
"Do you like them?" a voice out of nowhere startled her. She spun her head to the side only to see her art teacher looking up at Rubens and Rembrandts. Her heart started beating fast at the closeness of their bodies but she tried to act as calmly as possible.
"Yeah," she casually said. The art teacher turned her head towards her and raised an eyebrow, "Who's your favorite painter?" I could feel his gaze burning right through my cheek and so many possibilities ran through my head. Of course, there was also an urge to kiss him...but she tried her best to control herself from doing so.
"I like John Singer Sargents," she said, trying to keep her eyes locked on the paintings hung on the wall instead of meeting his eyes. She heard his hum of approval before speaking up, "I like Turner." They grew quiet for a moment and stared at the paintings for a while before she heard him speak up again, "What's your favorite work of art?"
The easiest yet hardest question, she thought. Of course it was obvious; the defined yet soft edges of his jaw, to the pink shade of his lips, traveling up to the curve of his cheekbones, his soft hazel eyes that seemed to hold so much history, mystery and so much story.
"The Kiss," she answered.
Never could she tell him it was him.