post #3.
When the goldleaf falls to the floor, I immediately feel like crying because I've ruined everything.
I was going to wrap each teabag in my old bent tin with a sheet and when I saw Heath later that
day I was going to surprise him with a cup of lemon tea. I'd place a bag in that ugly novelty mug
which is always on his bedside table and pour hot tea from my thermos on top. The goldleaf will
crumble and swirl about the water and just for a few moments, while we're mesmerized by my
surrogate goldwasser, we'll forget. He'll lie down and my head will fall on his chest. We'll stare at
the ceiling fan, wonder where the day has gone, and forget.
It's Flick's fault.
It has to be. He must of brushed the envelope or caused a draft with his weird, teacup ears.
"Why do you say that?"
Idiotic questions don't justify responses. I ignore him and lean on the balls of my feet. If I
concentrate on Flick's canvas long enough, he's not there anymore and I'm somewhat
happier. I can appreciate his work and the effort he puts into it but I can't bring myself to like
the artist. If I am honest, I'm mad at him. Because he seems to be able to produce sketches and
completed canvases like it was child's play and I have not finished anything since September.
I hide them all under my bed and tell myself that I'll just work on them later but even the thought
of looking at them makes me sick. I'll take all these brushes, paints, and pastels back to my dorm
but I'll scatter them on my desk so it looks like I'm still that pretentious bitch who thinks she's an
artist that everyone is use to.
I've been skipping art class, I've been skipping all my classes. I feel fragile and exposed. Every time I am criticized, I feel regressed to a five year old girl and then. I feel worse because I wish I was that five year old girl again - in my mind I still am. When you're five everyone tells you who you are - you're their 'pumpkin', their 'sweet', their 'liebling'. Now I'm expected to know who I am and I'm realizing that I, their once 'liebling', amounted to nothing more than a sad, ignorant slut.
“Can I see your sketches? You’ve seen my painting.”
"Anyone can see your painting. You're in the middle of an open room."
Flick is full of idiotic words and it makes me think he's speaking for the sake of speaking or maybe he's use to expressing more with a brush and a canvas then his own mouth - that's truly sad. I don't directly say 'No' but I'm sure he can sense it from the tone of my voice alone. My moleskine sometimes feels like an extra appendage, maybe like a tail which I show to other people when I want the sweet attention that freaks always
seem to have. I don't like Flick so his attention would not be gratifying to me at all.
I start stuffing whatever is in my hand in my satchel, there's no point in wasting my day doing nothing. I could take a shower or teach orphans how to read. As I
"You owe me some sheets of goldleaf since you've knocked mine over. "