I remember that evening my mother had put a bowl of beautiful perfect apricots on the porch table. They were almost as orange as the beautiful sunset in the sky overhead. The wind caressed my face like an affectionate friend I had not met in a long time, but what I remembered most of all were his eyes.
Why is it that a person's most notable feature is their eyes? The old cliche comes to mind: Eyes are the window to the soul. I was scared to look into his eyes, but I wanted to anyway, because he saw things with new depth and changed my own perspective on life.
I watched him grab an apricot distractedly, taking in the rich orange color. "These look fantastic," he said, peering at the fruit with an artist's eye. "Where did you find them?"
"My mother grows them," I replied. "We own a small orchard."
He set the fruit before him on the table, drinking in the detail. I could see the gears in his mind working intently. Meanwhile I was content to watch him as he stared at the fruit.
A gentle breeze wrapped around us as if dancing in a graceful pirouette round the table. I wanted to capture this moment because it was so peaceful and felt endless in its simplicity. Neither of us had to say a word and we were comfortable in the silence.
I gazed at the artist as he saw something simple in a way I could never imagine, because he saw with different eyes.
"Can I borrow this for a painting?" he asked, nodding to the fruit.
I smirked. "As long as you bring it back." Anything to see him at my porch again.
He looked at me knowingly, and I felt him drink in my every detail like he had done with the fruit. I held his gaze boldly, though deep inside I felt self-conscious. What did he see in me that I could not? For months I'd dreamed of having him look at me this way, but never considered how to behave when it actually happened. His eyes were scrutinizing and I felt like all my secrets were clear as day to him.
"You've got a bowl full of apricots," he said smilingly. "Surely you won't miss the one."
"No two are the same," I replied evenly, holding his powerful gaze. "Surely you know that."
His smile held, and I managed to beat him at the stare-down. Giving up, he laughed again. "I promise to return your apricot whole, without a scratch on it."
"Good," I said. "Then I'll make a smoothie."
The artist smiled, drinking me in like the smoothie I'd just mentioned. "And I don't get to try it?"
"If you stay I'll make you one, too."
He looked as if words were caught in his mouth--something about his loaded smile, his eyes deep with a memory or a wish he would not voice. I wasn't an artist but I was a dreamer, and could recognize others at once. This young man was one of the biggest dreamers I'd ever met, and he could put his dreams on canvas. "I should go," he mumbled at last, glancing at his watch. "Thanks for letting me stop here."
He lived so far away, and had only come to rest a while during his drive south. I hadn't seen him in years, and was pleasantly surprised when he asked if he could come to lunch. Now I didn't want him to go, but he had work and I could not follow him. He would vanish and become a dream again, someone I wrote about in my diary, and was afraid to message because he felt superior.
"Keep the apricot," I whispered, sobering. "Take more, if you want."
"I only need one," he said gratefully. "Wish there was time for that smoothie."
My heart was suddenly heavy with regret. I didn't want him to go so far away. He was the most interesting thing that happened to me in years and letting him go was like having a dream slip through my fingers. "Come back sometime."
"If I'm invited," he told me sadly. "I'd love to come back."
I forced a smile and watched him stand up, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. I didn't want to look at him and say good-bye. I wanted to hold on to a person I didn't really know, except for the occasional interaction online. Here in the rich country where fruit trees grew, I was sheltered from the outside world and everyone in it. I was alone in paradise and the trees could not talk back.
Finally I forced myself up and pushed my chair back in place, waiting for him to say good-bye because I couldn't. He'd brought with him a new vision I wanted to keep, changing how I saw things simply by looking at the apricot with such fascination.
I could offer him lemonade and maybe he would stay, but couldn't make it harder on him. He had work and a life and a family waiting on the other end of his journey. "It was nice seeing you again," I whispered, finally forcing myself to look at him. I wanted to remember him because he changed the routine of my daily life--helping me see it as a work of art simply by approaching it in such a way himself.
"You too," he said, not moving an inch. I waited for the handshake or the hug or whatever it was you did when saying good-bye to someone you hadn't seen since second grade.
Instead he grabbed the apricot with care as if it were a child, holding it to the light for a moment, and I realized it was the exact same shade of orange as the sunset. He'd opened my eyes again, and even if he never came back, I felt wide awake and ready to see life again.
The artist turned to me and nodded farewell. I saw in his eyes conflict: Words wanted to come out but he wouldn't say them. There was no hug or handshake, but somehow that look was enough.
I knew he wouldn't forget me either.
He turned and made his way off the deck, walking slowly to the beat-up pickup truck where he'd turned up unexpectedly earlier. It was wrecked and by no means shiny, caked in mud and with a battered suitcase in the back. Some canvas lay covered by a protective sheet, and I wondered if one of them would soon depict my mother's apricot.
He set the fruit on the passenger seat and I wished I could follow, but life was not always a fairy tale. It wasn't always how we wanted it to be. Perhaps someday we'd meet again, but for now I watched him pull away in his car and vanish down the dirt road to find art somewhere else in the world.
