Midnight Muse

The art supply store—Art Haven—has always been a place of solitude. Being surrounded by fresh supplies is encouraging. The sidewalk is painted colorfully, flowers and vines creating a path to the door, it’s open sign a vibrant blue where it hangs on its hook.

The large windows are covered with messages welcoming the Vulcan University students back to campus, and there’s an eerily spot-on drawing of Perry the Pinto—our schools beloved mascot—with a foam finger on his hand and the other on his hip, his horse mouth pulled into a grin that should seem cheerful, but looks like he’s ready to bite.

The bell to the shop rings as I push through the door but there is no one at the counter to greet me. I don’t mind because it’s still early and I’m not in the mood to pretend that my morning hasn’t been one of the shittiest ones I’ve had in a long time, and I’m not even hungover.

The scent of the store fills my lungs and I shut my eyes, reveling in it. I can feel the recharging of my creative energy already, my inspiration trying to blossom once more.

Maybe I can talk to the owner and convince them to let me live here instead.

Taking my time, I shuffle up and down the aisles, drinking in everything for all of its glory. Paints lined up by brand and color, a rainbow bursting with life. They’re pristine, swollen like plump berries, not yet crusted with use. There’s an entire aisle dedicated to sketchbooks and papers of all sorts; canvases larger than my body stacked against the back walls, pencils with graphite of all weights and strengths. I pluck a new HB pencil from its container and admire it. I might come back around for a few more before I leave, depending on my running total. One can never have enough pencils.

A kneaded eraser is added to my quickly growing pile and aha! there’s the sharpener I need. I sweep back around the front of the store for a basket, dumping the supplies in before I’m rocketing back off to the sketchbook section.

There’s a shuffling of noise in another aisle. I gather that it must be the associate on shift. Music begins playing softly through a speaker by the front and it’s much less grating than the kind that so rudely woke me this morning. The chill Indie music fills the space with even more life, and combined with the streams of sunlight sliding in through the windows, I think my day might just be starting to pick up.

I end up with three sketchbooks in my basket—a feat in itself not to choose one of each of the gorgeous books calling my name—and I continue traipsing through the store. Passing the sculpting section, I pause for a moment, wondering if I should sign up for a class next semester. At the thought of the clay thick against my skin, constantly caked under my nails and embedded into my clothes, I decide against it.

I grab a can of fixative for when my drawing class starts up and toss it into the basket hooked in the crook of my arm. We’re going to be using charcoals for most of the semester, another messy medium I don’t care for. I’m not a fan of the feeling of the dry chalk against my fingertips, sticking between the creases of my fingers. It takes forever to get out.

I’m a simple girl with simple tastes, graphite is best, though I do enjoy working with colored pencils every once in a while. I’ve always wanted to try my hand at painting. Rory’s talent with oils is incredible, but I’m sure she’s only making it look easy because of her insane talent, and it’s much harder than I think it is.

There are so many different types of art I want to try that it’s almost overwhelming. Well, anything in my current state of fatigue is overwhelming, but I don’t feel like I’ve found my style of art quite yet. It’s something I’m trying hard to figure out this year at college. I’ve loved drawing since I was a young girl, but as I’ve grown, my love for the art has become more of a nuisance than fun.

Surely, I will figure it all out someday.

I take the longest in the paint aisle. The different types are astounding: oils, gouache, watercolors, and acrylics. The possibilities are endless.

Tubes upon tubes of color scream for my attention and I admire each one, drinking in their vibrant hues. There are reds of all shades, ochres that remind me of autumn; phthalos and umbers and titanium white stare at me, waiting for me to take them home, squeeze the life from them so they’re bursting across my canvas. My gaze snags on a unique color and I lean closer to read the name: dioxazine.

I abandon that one, instead picking out a tube each of the most important colors that I can blend together to create any color that I might be in need of. It’s like a super power, the ability to mix any shade from only a few, and I love it.

There is a plethora of brushes hanging above the paints and I sweep my fingers across the bristles of a fan shaped one, smiling at its softness.

One of the sketchbooks I added to my basket is for painting, the paper thicker and able to withstand the viscous medium. It’s small, something for quick and rough paintings because I want to get used to the material before committing. I’ve always wanted to work with paint and now seems like as good of time as any.

After adding a few brushes to my basket, I make my way towards the front of the store to check out, halting in my tracks when I see who is behind the counter.

Thankfully, it isn’t Knox, but it is one of his roommates.

It’s the blond. He’s leaning against the counter, swiping though his phone without a care in the world. For a fleeting moment I wonder if he’s only working the opening shift because the music also didn’t allow him to sleep peacefully, but I think better of it. Knox’s music is probably a lullaby to him.

His hair is surprisingly neat, brushed back with the dampness still clinging to it from a morning shower. He’s clad in a dark t-shirt that leaves a plethora of patchwork tattoos on display. There’s an over-the-top cup of coffee on the counter that puts my order to shame. His posture exudes an effortless confidence, and when he looks up and catches sight of me staring at him like a deer in headlights, a dimple deepens in cheek.

“Fancy seeing you here, neighbor,” he greets.

I bite back the groan at the base of my throat, moving closer. All I have to do is pay for my things and then I can leave. Sounds simple enough. I don’t have to converse with him outside of the necessary cashier talk, and maybe, if I’m lucky, he won’t even try to taunt me.

Yeah, right.

“Hi,” I grit, placing my basket on the counter. He peers into it and I tense, feeling judged. I have no idea what kind of art he’s into, if he even is at all, but I don’t like him knowing this part of me, not when he and his roommates have been nothing but rude. It feels a little too personal.

Those ocean blue eyes flicker back to mine, studying me, as if he’s deciding—just like I am—if he should be civil or not. I don’t balk from his assessment, probably seeing nothing more than my tired eyes and the downturn of my mouth.

I shift on my feet, silently willing him to stop looking at me and start ringing up my supplies. Instead, he smirks.

And there goes my mood.

Much to my surprise, the first thing out of his mouth isn’t a jibe. “How are you this morning, Darling?”