Artgirl

to remember: 1// lost stars

A short, blonde one nodded. She seemed like the boss in the group, "I'm looking for a cute necklace. I heard you make them really well. My friends might get some too, if I like them."

"Jessie, over there, makes them. They're in this side. If you have any questions, come ask me!" I said. The teenagers hobbled excitedly to said part of the store. I walked to the boy.

He was taller than I was, but my heels already gave me the advantage of not having to look up to him. A lip piercing caught my eye, but he rolled his eyes upon seeing me. His hair was tied up in a bun, from what I could see, it was pitch-black.

"Are you looking for anything?" I questioned him.

He shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. "Do you know how to shut up fourteen year old girls?"

"Ice cream," I said without hesitation. "And letting them loose in a mall."

We stood before my paintings, his eyes analyzed them curiously. I looked over to Jessie, who made a motion of winking and swinging her tongue around. I gave her a glare that read cut-it-out-horny-pants and turned to the customer.

"These are cool," he mumbled. "I like this one."

He pointed to one of my personal favorites. It was a black hole, surrounded by stars and constellations. His eyes dropped to the price and he nodded, "I want this one. Me mum's birthday's comin' up." He lifted the painting and gave me a nod, "yours?"

I thought of the day I painted this; I drove to the park in Silvercrest, sat on the grass and drew the sky out of boredom. Soon, it evolved into this. And now this boy would give this as a present to his mom.

"Yeah. You can ask Jessie," I ushered to my friend, "for her to wrap the painting up and give you a card. It'll be ten extra pence."

"Alright." And that was that. The painting was gone.

Sometimes it was difficult, letting go of my paintings. Every one of them held a small piece of my heart. I worked on them and poured my heart to them. Each one of them had a story of their own, a baggage that only I knew about. The comfort came to me from the idea that people would have them in their homes or show them to others. The painting's story got buried with the painter: me.

More people came in that day, taking home paintings and different objects. Jessie's jewelry was a big success; they were simple and aesthetically breathtaking. She had a sailor's mouth but a delicate human's hands. Being my mom's friend's daughter, she was the one who encouraged me to move and open my store here. She soon became one of my best friends, our art being one of our biggest bonds.

Lunch hour rolled around and Jessie was the one to close the store. We went out to a subway shop close by. Jessie blabbed about how amazingly fantastic her sandwich was.

She wrapped her curls up and grimaced, "I feel like I'm wearing an animal on my head."

"Your hair rocks," I took a sip of my smoothie, "I wish mine was as cool."

"Yeh, but it's like a mess, ya know? It takes me five hundred hours to wash it," she pondered. And her skin reminded me of the color of cappuccino, "I could be designing stuff, you feel?"

"I feel," I chuckled. "You've been spending too much time on Tumblr."

"There's no such thing as too much time on Tumblr," she said, dismissing my words with a wave of her hand. Her handmade thick sweater shielded her from the cold. It was oversized; reached her knees. But she refused to call it a dress.

"Are we still going out tonight?" Jessie pressed.

I shrugged, "still? When were we supposed to go out?"