Mary felt the steady
breaths behind her before she heard them.
She hadn’t heard footsteps. She breathed in slowly without turning
around and held very still as if whatever was behind her was a predatory wild
beast stalking her and would pounce on any sudden movement. She looked
down and focused on her paints.
“What are you doing?” said the voice, a
young man’s voice, smooth and curious.
“Painting.” She kept her voice calm
and steady. She felt him crouch behind
her and she relaxed. He wasn’t about to attack.
“At night?”
“It’s the best time.” She opened a tube of blue paint.
“I agree.”
“You can watch,” she said, the fear gone
out of her now.
“All right. I’d like that.” Mary felt him
settle down close by.
She turned then to look at him. He was in
front of the paper lantern, his face cast in shadow. The words her
grandmother had said came back to her. Words about things and shadows, but his
breath was warm on her neck. She was not afraid.
“You’re very pretty,” he said.
“You’re very blunt.” She put down her canvas then and shifted on the
rocks so that she wasn’t looking at his face silhouetted by the lantern like a
solar eclipse. Away from the light, she could make out more
details. He was lean with slightly mussed sandy hair and eyes blessed
with thick lashes. He was possibly a year or two older than she was. The star
painting was no longer so important. She’d give anything to paint the
face of this boy but she wasn’t ready to look away from him yet.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“I’ve always been here.” His voice
was soft, almost a whisper, but tense.
“What do you mean?” she asked. He
reached out and touched a stray bit of her hair that had escaped her ponytail.
She leaned back just out of his reach. She noticed his clothing
then. His top was dirty and his pants were two sizes too big. The
word urchin came to mind, a boy from a Charles Dickens novel.
“I mean I’ll be here whenever you come.”
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