She is watching him paint.
And he is watching her watching him.
Her lack of desire to understand his paintings is only matched by his desire not to have to explain them. She simply wishes to observe; he only wishes to create.
The tenuous bond continues to hold them together, as it has done for months as she pauses on her way to the city each day.
At times either one may conjecture a relationship, a nebulous image with clouded edges. But it is simply conjecture.
Today, however, he looks up.
“Hi, I’m Vincent.“
The bond is broken.
Happy New Year to all Friday Fictioneers around the world. Let’s hope for a better one, both the year and the world. Many thanks to Rochelle for all that she does for our happy band of writers.