And when the day came to load their packs into his little car, the sun was but halfway up the horizon. The cool air was not the reason for the bumps on his arms, his neck—she was. She was the fire behind his smile and the soft, sunrise colors in his eyes. And, like an artist who senses he has but a hundred days left to live, he was driven to paint for her this love, these sketches of gratitude, watercolors of what she meant to his world.
Lee was no visual artist. Still, his fingertips traced her cheekbones, realized her jaw line, and his lips brushed the most intimate corners of her canvas. Together they mixed the primary colors unique to each.
Posts
