On a ledge overlooking the river, Averie sat.
In his hands were shiny marbles that he had collected from the riverside.
He threw them at the bushes where the crickets made their annoying noises.
"Enjoying the scenery?" an old, unsteady voice reached him from behind.
Averie turned around to find Mr. Cao bringing him a tray full of cookies and beverages.
"Coffee," he replied absentmindedly.
The old man poured Averie a cup of coffee and a cup of tea for himself.
He sat down on the ledge and placed the tray between himself and the actor.
There was a kind of serenity to his actions, a compliance with nature.
Watching him, Averie could see how the paintbrushes had worn down his fingers.
He had seen fingers like those before.
Painters, writers, and anyone else who constantly worked with awkward instruments had spidery fingers.
Of course, there were exceptions, but the man in front of him clearly wasn’t one of those.
"You want to ask something," the old painter said.
It clearly did not sound like a question, and Averie wondered if he was that obvious to read.
"You can tell a man in contemplation from a man wasting away when you have observed as many people as I have. If you have any questions, do speak now. I don’t suppose we have much time to converse."
For a minute, Averie did not reply.
He stared at the dark sky and the stars that had come out of hiding.
Those words escaped him unconsciously.
It felt like such an easy and obvious question to ask.
Averie expected an allegory or a fated encounter, but what he received was something far simpler.
The painter continued, "I only saw her once in passing in my youth when I was trotting the globe. I don’t remember where it was. It was either Tibet, Nepal, or somewhere in South East Asia."
His guest sucked in the cool air.
It was a pleasing atmosphere, but lonely, nonetheless.
Averie took a sip of his coffee, the steam wafting in the wind.
"May I ask what her name was?"
"I have no clue. I never talked to her and never saw her again."
A gust of wind blew the scent of grass and sea towards the two.
Averie nodded, and the two sauntered along the river’s edge.
"When the season is right, we capture freshwater fish and cook it on an open fire. I would like to invite you if there’s an opportunity..."
His breathing was heavy, and Averie didn’t think there ever would be an opportunity.
"Why did you draw her?"
The man caressed his beard. "To answer that, you must understand something else."
"The story behind it. Do you know when I drew her?"
"You said you saw her in your youth, so—"
"I wasn’t as skilled in my youth."
"I drew her a year or two ago. I can’t remember exactly when, but it was a beautiful sunny day when I began." He looked at his shaky hand. "It has become hard to remember time and place."
Averie did not know that feeling as well.
If he had died old, he could’ve sympathized. But death did not allow his mental faculties to deteriorate.
"When I first met her, she left a significant enough impact on me. Her expression was serene, but her eyes held an indescribable sorrow. I could not figure out what that sorrow was, but I thought that perhaps everyone in the world had that tinge of sadness hidden deep within."
Averie waded through the grass as the two walked towards a little patch of flowers.
"Rather sombre, wouldn’t you say?"
"Maybe." He cracked a smile. "That led me to my chase of depicting the little emotions that we hide. Joy on the face of a sorrowed widow, and exhilaration on the face of a dying man. I drew the little details and was recognized for my ability to create paintings that suck the spectator in."
"Exhilaration on the face of a dying man..."
Averie recalled his own death. How many times he was stabbed that day, not even the Devil could tell.
"Do you think that is possible?"
"Yes." That man mumbled something to himself before continuing, "There must have been more than one such person. But the one I saw was a death row inmate. He had this peculiar twinkle in his eyes. It was as if it was not death but salvation that he was granted."
"And you thought he was a psycho?"
The man laughed like an old motor coming to life. "I thought that even though he was confined in a heavily guarded facility, he was the freest man in the room."
He was silent for a moment, reflecting on the years of his life.
"But I digress," he continued. "The lady, I knew nothing about her. And as I grew older, as I achieved all that I thought I could, she kept coming back to memory."
"Did you search for her?"
"I did. But without even knowing where to look, I couldn’t find her. I didn’t know where she was or who she was, but that was exactly what fascinated me."
"Yes, the mystery." He looked a little sad in that moment. "She was never supposed to be anybody specific. I was never supposed to assign her these labels, unlike the free death row inmate. I am talking artistically, of course."
"May I add something?"
"It sounds to me like if you had gotten to know her, you would have been disappointed."
The man laughed an old man’s laugh, interrupted only by his coughing.
"I think you are right."
’Because what you liked about her is the idea of her.’
"She was, or rather, is an idea. She is whatever I want her to be, and at the same time, she makes me wonder who she is."
’She is a question, and its very own reflection.’