January is the colour of her skin.
The streetlamps burn through the cloak of the fog as she passes beneath, searching for something that she can't seem to reach. It's almost haunting.
He stares out of the window, watching the dark figure. Although his coffee steams up the window in wisps, he can tell it's her.
Every night she strides past, hair as black as a crow's wing. Through thickening fog, he begins to think about where she's going, why she's wandering around at midnight every single night.
In a way, he is enchanted. She always appears just after he gives up; a group of semi-outline portraits lay abandoned around the compacted room. They have no life to their eyes or flow in a single strand of hair. Yes, they have likeness, but they are not alive.
Each time, he wishes for the skill to bring life to the contours of the skin and stares out of the window and she is there.
She chills him.
Sometimes he wonders if she is for him to draw, but his art is too intimate. He can't just draw someone walking in the street below, however beautiful.
Still, there's something about her...
As she slinks into a side-alley, he slowly lets his thoughts drift back into the usual routine. He can't let this be an obsession.
She is part of the routine now, passing through his mind at every opportunity. Through his paintings and writing, she laces her way into everything he does. Like a parasite of his mind.
Just her existence destroys him.
He doesn't care.
YOU ARE READING
Wasp
Mystery / Thriller"He stares out of the window, watching the dark figure. Although his coffee steams up the window in wisps, he can tell it's her. Every night she strides past, hair as black as a crow's wing. Through thickening fog, he begins to think about where she...
