The Artist Makes Sense

A better day. The artist worked on her two latest pieces and I finished a short story I was commissioned to write. The artist kept busy while I also researched the events I may encounter in the war zone when I leave. The artist paced herself, though. She stepped back, then moved forward again. Concentration. Pastel dust fell like snow, like dirty snow. The tall skinny legs of the stool scraped the floor and sliced the papers. Hopes were whispered again. Why should I expect every day to be good? The artist moves fast enough and it is not about me. Her gestures were scratchy but her thoughts were fleet. Even turning to ask a question is like a shot. Dedication. The tea is drunk fast. And made, again and again. Last night there was a documentary on a female artist not dissimilar in age. She made no sense.