The Artist and the Actor – 13

 

 

Colin spent much of Sunday working on sketches for his next projects before settling on two that he liked and limning them out on the canvases. By evening, he was ready to take a break, knowing that when he started painting he wouldn't come up for air except to hit the bathroom, fall into bed, or spare a few minutes to toss together a sandwich which he'd take into the studio to eat while working.

 

Turning off the lights in the studio, he went to change from his grubbies into decent jeans and a T-shirt. Then, grabbing a jacket because it was cool, even for March, he set the security system and left the house to walk to the Italian restaurant in the neighborhood that he favored.

 

"How did your opening go?" the waitress asked as she handed him the menu.

 

"Great. Three of my painting sold right out of the gate."

 

She grinned. "It was a horse race?"

 

Colin rolled his eyes. "You know what I meant, Janie."

 

"Yeah, I did. I'm happy for you. If I get the chance, I might stop in to take a look." She chuckled. "If I were rich, I'd even buy one."

 

Since she'd been working at the restaurant ever since he'd been going there, and they were friends, he replied, "If there's one you really fall in love with, and it doesn't have a 'Sold' dot on it, let me know and I'll tell Thomas to sell it to you for…hell, a quarter of the asking price."

 

"You would? You will? Colin, I think I love you."

 

He laughed. "Not that it'll do you any good."

 

"I know, I know, darn it."

 

She took his order and left. As soon as she had, he took a book from his bag and began reading—continuing to while he ate. When he'd finished and paid, he decided to take the long way home. Given what the next day was, his thoughts drifted to Kenny as he walked, remembering the good times before his death. He made a mental note to call his parents in the morning, if they didn't call first. They always touched base on the anniversary of his brother's murder, giving needed support to each other to make it through the day.

 

It's been ten years. Maybe this time it won't be so horrible. For him, it still hurt, but the pain had dimmed, between the painting he'd done in Kenny's memory and visiting the place where he'd died. Exorcising my demon, the way I told Thomas I had? I think so. Mom and Dad never will, not completely, but time has a way of healing even the worst sorrow. He hoped that was true for them.