August Skye

Part 8

I missed August's concert over the weekend. My first ever August Skye concert and I missed it!

It was against all my desires to stay home instead of going and watch her perform and be a part of her fundraiser, but I had caught a cold and the thought of going and spreading it to kids with Cancer who are going through radiation therapy and chemotherapy was evil. It was a horrifying thought. So, I stayed home and watched it from our bedroom with my virtual company, Luke.

Now, almost two weeks later, I was feeling better. We had flown back to New York for Christmas, celebrating it with Laura and then flown back to LA after the new year. August was recording most days so she needed to be here vs the east side. I didn't mind being in either place, so long as she was there.

Time flies is all I can say. This was particularly true for August and me. Most days met us and left us in her music room. The room had become a haven for our ideas, a place where we could unlock August's box of inspiration, which was now overflowing with melodies and lyrics.

Today, though, I managed to persuade her to take a break from her music. I had been struck by a wave of inspiration myself, a desire to capture her essence on canvas. I set up my easel on the back porch, my paints neatly arranged, the blank canvas waiting for the first stroke. The only thing missing was my muse, August.

I found her inside, by the piano, her fingers dancing over the keys while her phone recorded a demo of a song we were working on. Her face lit up when she saw me, but she continued playing, her focus unbroken. "This is what I have for this idea so far," she said, explaining her vision for the song for Scott, her hands miming the rhythm of a beat she envisioned. "Tell me if you like it."

Her smile was infectious as she rose from the piano bench and joined me. "Sorry, I just had to get that off my fingers," she apologized. "And Scott is on my ass about me procrastinating and wasting time."

"Understood," I affirmed. "When the spark of creativity ignites, it blazes with an unquenchable fire... And, Scott is on your ass as much as Phil about procrastinating and wasting time."

"Yeah. Not to mention Kate in my ears about staying on schedule. 'August, we need to get this album released by Summer!' Ugh!"

I rubbed the back of her hand soothingly. "Shall we go?"

"Hmm."

With a gentle hand on her back, I guided her through the rustic, weather-beaten back door, leading her towards a paint-covered, wooden stool I had thoughtfully placed for her. The stool, much like my studio, had seen cleaner days, but it held a certain charm that was hard to ignore. As she gracefully lowered herself onto the stool, her eyebrows knitted together in a delicate frown. "So, isn't this going to be a tad boring, just sitting here?" she questioned, her voice laced with a hint of apprehension.

"Are you implying that my company isn't captivating?" I playfully retorted.

A soft chuckle escaped her lips, like the gentle hum of a summer's breeze. "I'm merely stating that I have a tendency to get restless. Look at me, I'm already succumbing to ennui."

I couldn't help but smile at her candidness. As I sauntered over to her, I could see a glint in her eyes, a silent plea for a touch of excitement. It made my smile evolve into a hearty laugh. My fingers gently cradled her chin, holding it tenderly as I leaned in to plant a soft, lingering kiss on her lips. "Once this masterpiece is complete, you'll be rewarded with more of those."

She quickly cleared her throat, her body straightening up with a newfound determination. "Say no more," she responded with a firm voice.

I laughed once more and the sound flowed through the air as I turned my attention to my blank canvas. The familiar process of sketching the outline and mixing the vibrant hues of paint was comforting. As I began to apply the base colours to the canvas, I would occasionally steal a glance at August. Each time, she would straighten her posture and flash me a smile that could rival the sun, pretending to be the most riveted spectator. But I knew better. I knew she wasn't.