The cotton sheets shape the folds of her small figure. The single studio apartment is soundless in her wake. She lays, bundled in an array of multicolored quilts. Her eyes, softly closed, her lips carefully pursed, and her brown locks slightly tangled. What seems to be an everlasting silence is disrupted by a man. His slender body slumps over her sleeping shoulder, as he sits on the edge of the bed. He doesn’t touch her, and he doesn’t wake her, he just looks. He doesn’t really understand her much, yet he continues to fold the sheets neatly around her while his swift hands outline the depths of her face. He is unsure of her full name, most of her likes and dislikes, casual things too, but somehow he still finds minimal pleasure in her company. Despite her ambiguous character, he notices the minute details that tell more than she does. He notices the way she avoids eye contact, investment in personal connections, and most importantly confrontation. He pays attentions to the uncertainty in herself, between the way her hands tremble when holding a spoon of butternut squash soup to her lips and the way she avoids the 40 seconds of conversation with the cashier when she makes her order. Even though she knows her order before entering the local cafe. She continues to sleep, his sweet disposition reminisces over soft skin. His hands smooth and gentle caress her hair as he peers over, and as swiftly and quietly as he came, the floorboards begin to creek as his worn boots trace the floor, a gentle rhythm hums and as the door lightly closes. In the silence of the small apartment, she wakes.
Her small feet hang over the slightly raised mattress. Her stiff body slides out from under the covers. She fetches her cashmere sweater and worn out jeans. The fabric above her knees is slightly faded, yet she pays little to no attention to it. She decides to eat later in the evening and progresses to the outside of her single bedroom apartment. In the crisp winter air, she is greeted by the lively ambiance of the Williamsburg atmosphere. Despite living in this familiar location, her sense of direction has yet to adapt to her current living area. She continues to walk on the street, and is greeted by one of the small business owners on the block. He reminds her which street connects to which, and which street leads to the small market. His slight act of kindness pleases her more than the small businesses man will ever come to comprehend.
She returns home to her small apartment after a day well mostly on public transportation. Her poor sense of direction is subsequently shown in the close to empty metro card. She pays little attention to the insufficient fares left on her card and enters her small apartment. She enters her room and immediately returns to the bedroom. To the left of her bed side charcoal pencils, freshly sharpened followed by kneaded erases, and leather covered sketchbooks lay in an organized array. The floor filled with a plethora of empty canvases and stacks of overfilled moleskins, swatches of color from collaged pieces lay in clusters.The familiarity of these small luxuries leave her in awe. Her hand is quick to find an ebony pencil and a sketchpad. The morning light rays fill the room, casting a shadow upon her unfinished sketch. Her hands soon to be covered by the residual remnants of this media, delicately fill the tan tinted paper. The satisfaction of this leaves her in awe, and she returns to slumber, content with her creation. She sleeps through the night as the room darkens; the celestial body in the peaceful evening casts a reassuring shadow through the half opened curtains. She will soon wake, simply to repeat the simple satisfaction of artistry.