Manny wonders what might happen, if anyone is actually interested in buying one of his terrific pieces.
It’s been trying times indeed, and those who do stay and concentrate don’t ever seem to have the money
Just one sudden righteous decision on their part and he gets to take himself off to far sunnier climates, to relax and chillax like only a real artist can, to spend his days lazing around and creating his next great masterpiece while drinking Sangria – how awesome that would turn out to be.
People just don’t have the money anymore though, they need it for milk and bread and all these things that keep him utterly broke.
Being a cliche artist is all well and good, even romantic, yet it doesn’t feel quite right.
He’s put everything into this thing, and his stuff is good, some say even so much as otherworldly.
If only otherworldly sorted their rent atop a fine painting of his in their living room.
If only otherworldly equalled the money it sounds like it really should be worth.
A lady is standing by his latest offering, a portrait of a young woman standing by a piece of art – he loves how this looks, one leading into the other.
A picture of this woman now looking at the portrait woman looking at the… well, you get the idea… would be just marvellous.
He sidles up alongside her taking his camera with him, watching her eyes
She seems smitten, perhaps ready to fall in love and splurge.
He wants her to adore this piece, to make it her own.
She’s quite beautiful actually, reminds him a little of many a famous female artist – he’s taken to studying them of late in all their artistic and bodily glory, cannot help but.
She turns to him, accepting him to be the artist.
“Your piece is utterly gorgeous, Sir.”
“Please, my name is Manny. Why do you like it, may I ask?”
She thinks.
“Because you bring everything to the table, so to speak, the woman is beautiful and her gaze is fantastically real.”
She is dressed rather bohemian – the watcher and not the portrait – and he likes this a lot. Many a past girlfriend of his tended to dress the very same only nowhere near as rapturously.
“Wow, thank you. That means a helluva lot to me.”
He steps back a little, Let Them Breathe It In.
“You know, if you’d like the backstory, we can do that. You might like it, I do think.”
He waits for her response. She smiles, Just Wonderful.
“You know what, that would be really great. I love to hear the story of how a particular painting came to be, came to light, if you will.”
He tells her all about how the woman in the painting was a person who he had always appreciated, always believed to be extra special, and that she stood for him one day after they met again following a fair lay off in time at an exhibit of his. She’d been a sister of his friend from back home in London. She’d been the girl every artist would want to create to. The woman smirked.
“Ha, so there’s a definite running theme in your work then. I’m next, right?”
He had to give her marks for that, but no, not if she didn’t want. It hadn’t actually crossed his mind besides. They had since taken two small seats he’d crafted only that morning by the window stretching over the street far below, a bit away from the portrait. She could still see it.
“Ha, c’mon, give me more credit that that.”
She is joking but does reckon him a rather handsome soul who she is sure fairs well with the ladies, she quite likes his eyes and his stubbly jawline, she seems to be able to lose herself in his eyes as much as his painting.
Double threat then, how brilliant.

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