"I must have hit my head a lot harder than I had anticipated, or maybe breathe too much smoke because this is definitely nut-case crazy. Or a very creepy dream that feels way too real for my own good. I can pat my subconscious on the back for that o...
Chapter 39 - The Man Made Mad With Fear | Seascape at Saint Aubin
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I open my eyes in the middle of a field again. For a second, I actually think I might still be at the same place I just left.
But this place is different.
The angel girl and the two little boys aren't here anymore.
There's a body of water to my right, and there seems like there's civilization to my left. I get up and head to the sea. I'm never sure what to expect from people in paintings, and anyway, I kinda just want to dip my toes in the water, and maybe lie down on the beach.
It's a sunny day. I should make the most of it, and this curse.
As I get closer to the shore, I see a man sitting on the beach, with an easel set beside him. He's not painting. He's just leaning his head on his knees while looking at the horizon.
My whole body freezes.
It can't be.
But I recognize this back. I'd recognize it anywhere.
"Gustave?"
The man turns around. Familiar brown eyes look at me in shock.
"Melody?"
He barely has time to say my name and I'm sprinting to him.
He gets up and when I reach him, I jump in his arms. They encircle me, holding me tight against him, lifting my feet off the ground.
"Is this real?" he keeps asking, his face tucked in the crook of my neck and shoulder.
"Honestly, I don't think so," I reply, feeling like my eyes are filling up with tears.
I just left him. It's impossible that I'm right back to him this quickly.
We look in each other's eyes, both incredulous at this other impossible occasion, and Gustave's hand goes to the back of my head, as our lips meet for a kiss.
We kiss like we haven't seen each other in decades, rather than a few minutes for me. Our lips move fervently, our bodies close, my hands holding on to his shirt in fistfuls.
It was a few minutes for me, but how long was it for Gustave? He doesn't seem like he's aged, but anything is possible.
When our lips finally part, I ask, "When did you last saw me?"
"Two weeks ago," he replies, his hands cradling my face, like it's something precious, like he needs to hold on to it because he's scared I might disappear. At least it's the way I feel, as I keep holding on to him.
"Two weeks? Just two weeks?" For us, this is actually good.
"Yes," he replies, his eyes scanning my face. I do it too. I want to engrave every little detail about him in my brain. "And you, how many paintings?"
