The Paintings : Second Stanza

He sat outside at the cafe in the middle of a cold blustery April morning. The wind flipped his long hair around and the stinging cold made his cheeks a rosy red. The other patrons sat inside the small cafe, but not Desiderio Vincente. He could not stand the claustrophobic feeling of being stuffed in a small room with strangers and overhearing the whispers and small remarks. The waitress hated that she had to crack open the door and wait on this strange and distant character that frequented the cafe most days, rain or shine. The others inside hated him as well for every time she had to open the door, a frosty clang of cold air would blow their newspapers and napkins in an annoying swirl.

Most days he would sip coffee and mull over the days news and make comments to no one and generally seem bemused at man's folly. His mutterings and sometimes whippets of frustrations would startle the tourists around him, but after years of such behavior, the locals pretended to not hear him, like the sound of a background noise you don't notice until it's gone. It seemed as if the whole world would be coming to Paris next month for the Exposition Universelle, know to the rest of the world as the Paris World Fair. Usually not one to get worked up over such things, Desiderio was excited to see some of the inventions and art that would be on display.

Today his mind was not on the Exposition or anything in the news, he did not even have a newspaper. He sat huddled in his chair, both hands holding his coffee, and staring at nothing, his eyes looking about four feet in front of him. He was in another world, the world of paint and canvas and strokes and color. He would sometimes feel an idea as he sat at the cafe, looking at the people walk by and drift into a thought about someone he knew in days past. He would feel the pain and as it swept into him, the colors would form and the shapes would be what calmed him. Feeling the colors and the lines and the direction of the brush would make him start to forget the general discomfort of life. The waitresses, continually irritated with this strange man, all knew that look and would stay away from him when he was far off. They would not typically get a reply anyway.

"What do you think he's doing?", asked Mrs Dubiois from the shop three doors down, who sat inside sipping her tea
"He is a painter, maybe he is thinking about painting"
"Have you ever seen any of his work?" asked the shop keep
"No, no one has. Claire asked him once if she could see a painting of his, and he said they are not done yet." replied the waitress.
"strange"
"Yes, maybe he is not very good and does not like to show his work"
"He seems lonely, do you ever see him talking to anyone?" Mrs Dubiois was kind and always full of questions
"No, never" stated the waitress, get weary of answering questions about this disheveled painter.
"Strange" After a long pause, Mrs Dubiois kept going, "Does he ever say anything about himself, family, friends, etc.?"
"No, he just reads the newspaper, drinks coffee, and talks to himself, if I ever ask him anything, he just smiles, or mumbles something."
After a pause the waitress added "I wish he would go somewhere else"

A mother and child walked by, the mother, in a rush, leading the small boy by the hand. The boy looked back and smiled at the lone man sitting at a table outside the cafe. The painter looked at the child and tried to smile but it looked more like a grimace. He felt a stab of pain, a sorrow, that always lived below the surface. He placed some money, more than was necessary, down under the empty coffee cup and hurried back to the comfort of his upstairs studio to paint.