I stepped back, feeling butterflies in my stomach as I tried to take in what I had done, taking care to hold my hands up high in the air. I was wearing one of my favourite outfits to paint in- it was ridiculous of course, when I was so often fingerpainting- but I couldn’t resist picking it out today.
As I scanned my painting, taking in all the details as well as the big picture, I smiled. The strange little touches here and there- a splash of odd colour, my handprint in the corner- all made sense somehow. The overall feeling of the painting for once was right. It filled me with the joy I had painted it with as I looked at it.
I step back again, shaking my hands in the air, trying to dry the paint so I can touch things again. I want to find my phone and send my painting as a photo to my mother, but I step on something unexpectedly, twisting and twirling ungracefully, landing in a heap- or would have, if he hadn’t caught me.
His pale hand had grabbed mine and awkwardly supported my back so I wouldn’t fall. I stared into his eyes for a second, and then laughed, apologizing for stepping on his toes. He smiles as he apologizes for being in my way, and I can’t help but share his infectious smile. I want to paint the feeling his smile gave me- the little crinkle around his mouth, the pale skin dotted by freckles of sunny days, and his warm and shining coppery curly hair poking underneath an old, ochre colored cap.
I have to ask. “What’s your name?”
“Vincent.”
“Hah,” I said, smiling.
“That’s my name,” he insisted, a curious smile lighting up his face as I giggled.
“Like Vincent van Gogh?”
“Exactly,” he said.
“Right…”
I asked him what he was doing here by my painting, wondering how old he was, what college he might be going to, did he live in my city, and a million other questions. The answers were vague, but I didn’t feel upset by them. As we kept going, I realized I’d be disappointed if he didn’t say something mysterious in answer.
“Oh!” I said during a brief lull in the conversation. “Golden hour’s already gone. Man, and that’s my favourite time to paint! Guess it’s a good thing my painting’s done for today.”
I started to pack up my things, not believing that Vincent wouldn’t leave. He actually placed his hand on mine as I reached to take down my easel.
“Don’t go yet. Wait.” And he pointed to the skylight, showing the darkening sky. I watched and waited, entranced. The dark blue turned to black as petite points of light made their nightly entrance. The stars seemed so soft and so bright, the clouds swirling around in the pitch black and blue as the moon took her place on centerstage. She was gold, unlike the moon I usually knew.
This was Vincent’s doing. I turned to find him and realized he had faded away when I wasn’t looking. I’d heard no footsteps and never felt his touch leave my hand, but he was gone.
Feeling surprised and empty, disappointed, I pack up my easel. But as I turn to leave the station, frowning for a moment at the paint that had managed to streak on my outfit, a golden speck catches my eye.
I turn my head to look at the wall of the abandoned subway and find A Starry Night in graffiti, signed “Vincent” in the corner. And the emptiness fades as I remember the feeling of painting a smile.
