On Its Way to the Recyle Bin

I spent part of Saturday and Sunday cleaning out about thirty spiral notebooks full of handwritten material- stories I'd started that never went anywhere, bits and pieces, lists of potential character names including an entire multi-generational family named Grimshaw that was salvaged because I really NEED to do something with that and have a vague idea perking away in the recesses of my imagination.

This is one little piece that I discovered among the pages and pages of written words that actually made it into a short story I believe was titled Artistic Impression.

Enjoy_

The glance of his eye is like a brushstroke across my cheek- light, feathery with just enough pressure to make me aware that he has noticed me. I do not want to appear interested. Rumor has it that his ego is already too large for any one woman to handle and I am, quite frankly, not interested in catering to someone so full of himself that he has no room in his heart or soul to genuinely care about anyone or anything else. I am just here to view his artwork and perhaps to meet him face to face, but only to say hello. I will not extoll the brilliance of his composition, his distinctive style, his skillful technique, nor his flare for the dramatic. I will remain mum in my opinion of the subtleness of his characterization, his ability to capture the serenity of a simple pastoral landscape in such delicate brushstrokes that the paint is like will o' the wisps skimming across the canvas. I will not feed his insatiable appetite for praise and recognition. I will simply say, "Hello, thank you for the unexpected invitation. I am happy to have had an opportunity to view your art in person." And then I will turn and walk away.

The best laid plans, alas, often go awry despite our best intentions.