Julian sat in his studio staring at a blank canvas, as he had been for several years now. He picked up a pencil, both ready and reluctant at the same time, the face of the woman at the gallery lingering in his mind. The woman, he thought. Then he laughed to himself, "I didn't even ask her name."
He held the pencil just slightly above the canvas, eyes closed, envisioning the woman, recalling the curves and contours of her face, the way her eyes angled slightly upward like a fox's but not quite, the way her lips moved ever so slightly as she stood immersed in front of a painting as if contemplating the history or perhaps even the reason behind the art. He remembered every detail.
But memory wasn't enough. It never was. Julian's pencil hovered, sketching faint lines that disappeared almost as quickly as they formed. Her image flickered in his mind, sharp and clear, yet his hand refused to translate it to the page. The woman had been ordinary by some standards—tired, guarded, wrapped in muted grays—but her presence had demanded attention in a way he couldn't quite define. No, not ordinary. Complex. Intriguing. A puzzle of shadows and quiet strength. And the thought that he might never see her again gnawed at him in a way that surprised even himself.
What if she never calls? What if the chance encounter was a once in a lifetime? It was very possible to never cross paths again. Then what would happen to him? Julian put the pencil down, then looked around his studio bereft of new artwork. He had all the tools, but inspiration had eluded him for a long time... the spark had gone from him, until he saw her and the fire within him reignited. He wanted to paint again and he needed her to be his muse. But he might have blundered his chances when he asked her to pose for a nude on impulse.
He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, his fingers tangling briefly in the wavy strands. The blank canvas loomed before him, its emptiness mocking his sudden burst of purpose. He had thought her face might come to him naturally, that the pencil might find her on its own, but no—it wasn't the same. A muse wasn't just a memory, and he had been foolish to think otherwise. A muse was a presence, a force in the room, a balance of energy that fueled his own. Without her here, he was chasing a shadow.
The studio was quiet, save for the faint hum of the city outside the window. Afternoon light filtered through half-drawn curtains, illuminating the chaos around him—canvases leaned haphazardly against walls, some half-finished, others untouched, all silently accusing him of neglect. Brushes were strewn across a weathered wooden table, their bristles stiff from dried paint, while tubes of oil paints lay crushed and forgotten, like relics of a time when creation had been second nature to him.
In one corner stood an easel holding the last painting he had completed, years ago now. It was a landscape, moody and brooding, the kind of work he had poured himself into when he still had direction. But now, it felt lifeless, as if it belonged to another artist entirely. Julian's gaze lingered on it for a moment before he looked away, the weight of it pressing down on him like a stone.
The studio door creaked open, the sound cutting through the quiet like the first stroke on a blank canvas. Julian didn't have to look up to know who it was. Ivy always let herself in, her presence as unyielding as her opinions.
"Still brooding, I see," she said, the clack of her heels against the hardwood floor growing louder as she approached. "You know, I thought when you came back from that gallery last night, you'd actually be working today. Silly me."
Julian sighed, his pencil rolling off the desk and onto the floor. "Good afternoon to you too, Ivy."
Coffee cup in hand, she plopped herself onto the worn leather armchair in the corner, the only thing in the studio untouched by paint stains. "Afternoon? Try evening. Have you eaten anything? Or are you surviving off sheer creative frustration these days?"
He shot her a dry look but didn't answer. Ivy had been his agent, his friend, and his occasional adversary for years. She had a knack for showing up when he least wanted company but most needed it.
"Well?" she pressed, crossing her arms. "What's stopping you now? And don't give me that 'inspiration' excuse again. You're better than that."
For a moment, Julian considered brushing her off, but the memory of the woman at the gallery flickered through his mind. He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. "I met someone."
Ivy raised an eyebrow, leaning forward like a cat scenting curiosity. "Oh?"
"She might be my next muse," he said, the words sounding heavier than he expected. "But I might have scared her off."
"Scared her off? Who'd be scared off by a good looking old man like you?"
Thirty-six isn't old, Julian thought, before answering, "I... asked her to pose for a nude."
Ivy froze mid-sip, the coffee cup poised near her lips. Her brows shot up in exaggerated disbelief before she set the cup down carefully, her movements deliberate. "Julian. You're joking."
Julian ran a hand through his hair, letting out a low groan. "Do I look like I'm joking?"
Her laughter rang out, loud and clear, filling the studio with a sense of life it hadn't seen in months. "You're lucky she didn't slap you! You've got no tact, no sense of—of timing!"
"I know," Julian muttered, his voice laced with irritation. "I just... I wasn't thinking. She was there, and everything just clicked. I couldn't help myself."
"You could've started with, 'Hi, I'm Julian Romero, renowned painter and generally well-mannered human being.'" Ivy crossed her arms, her lips twitching into a smirk. "You know, instead of, 'Take your clothes off, stranger.'"
"I didn't say it like that." He shot her a look.
"You basically did." She leaned against the edge of a nearby table, her gaze softening. "Look, you're rusty. I get it. But maybe tone it down a notch next time? Women aren't canvases you can just commandeer."
He nodded, though a flicker of frustration remained in his expression. "It's not just about the art. There was something about her... I can't explain it. She's different. I've never felt this way about a potential muse before."
Ivy's teasing demeanor faded, replaced by a quiet understanding. "Sounds like she made an impression."
"She did," Julian said softly, his voice almost reverent. He glanced at the blank canvas, his fingers twitching as though yearning to pick up the pencil again. "She's the first thing I've wanted to paint in years."
"Well, for both your sakes, let's hope a miracle happens," Ivy said, giving him a pointed look. "Otherwise, you're going to be unbearable."
Julian gave a rueful chuckle, his mood lightening just a little. "You're not wrong."
As Ivy sipped her coffee, a companionable silence settled between them, broken only by the faint hum of the city beyond the studio windows. Despite his doubts, Julian couldn't help but feel a small glimmer of hope. Though the woman had rejected him, her eyes betrayed a spark of curiosity that her words tried to conceal. If his instincts were right and that curiosity ran as deep as he suspected, she would call.
And if she didn't? He'd have to find a way to make peace with the blank canvas before him.
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