Talking about Sylvie made my hand ache in a way only an artist could understand. The need to create became so prominent that the last half hour of dinner was a blur, as was the ride home.
I sprinted from the car into the house and tore through the closets looking for the supplies Nate and I had bought, finally finding the essentials, yet no f*****g easel. However, I had a hammer and nails. Four nails through the framed canvas now secured it to the wall. Every shade of blue I could come up with landed on my pallet. Without thought, I gave myself the freedom to move, stroking my brush, creating lines with my knife.
As the darkness of night faded into the light of morning, my eyes blurred with exhaustion. The painting wasn't complete, but I literally couldn't see to continue.
No sooner
