Part
I:
It turned out that Reeya taught him more than
kitchen necessities in the course of the day.
The first adventure they went with was painting.
Tristan was no artist – her knew that for sure – but with Reeya’s gentleness
and easy hand, he learned tons of things quickly. She lectured him on some
points; about posture, wrist angle and distance from the object. It was mostly
about effort, but he didn’t mind. As long as Reeya was with him, everything was
marvelous in his eyes.
“Maybe you should try mixing these two,” she said, pointing
to white and carnation pink colors, “more on the pink than the white, and just
relax, okay? Hey, don’t slouch.”
Tristan’s back became ramrod straight. “Sorry. I’m a
bad student.”
“No,” she laughed, “you’re not that bad. Just go
easy so the strokes won’t be rigid and too deep. Your picture’s supposed to be
ethereal.”
“I don’t see how painting a vase with cherry
blossoms on it can turn out to be ethereal,” he responded with doubt, looking
at the object in question.
“You’re a beginner, okay? You don’t just turn to Van
Gogh in less than an hour of practice. Here,” she rose from her seat, not finishing
her own work –she chose to work on the chandelier – and stood behind him. She held
his hand and guided it though the canvas, making him insane, “Vases are always
easy to paint. They have subtle curves, see? The details one them are the
hardest to get right though, because you’re sort of painting another painting,
and you can’t replicate everything perfectly. Just go with the flow. Get it?”
“Every word,” Tristan replied, dazed. He was subtly
crazed by the friction of their skin, never wanting it to end.
“There,” she said, satisfied, “use that as a
springboard. Go on, it will be great.”
“Hope so.” he took a deep breath. The little bit of drawing
will be the smaller problem; he’s really distracted by their close proximity.
Just an inch to his left, and her shoulders would brush his and Tristan found
it intoxicating and ridiculous.
“That’s good.”
“What? Oh,” he flicked his eyes away from her face
and to his work, which, in his opinion, was passable. “It’s not that horrible,
huh?”
“No, it’s really good. You should finish it – I want
to see it when it’s done.”
Now inspired beyond words, Tristan began to paint
with more feeling.
Part II:
“No, don’t do it too hard. Just make it more of a
tap.”
“My kitchen’s the devil’s bathroom already – ”
“Exactly the motivation you need, right?”
Tristan groaned. Three hours passed after he started
his painting project and with nice results, too. Truth be told, he was really
proud of his output. Though, as Reeya said, it was no Van Gogh, it was good for
an amateur try. He didn’t mind if it was Van Gogh anyway – he wanted it to be
full-out Tristan Devon.
It was also to his ego’s benefit that Reeya was
highly pleased with the painting, and making her feel happy was more than a
professional success right now.
Then they got to cooking.
“Look here,” she said. Her hair was tied up in a
messy bun, and she looked really homey. Her slender fingers grabbed another egg
from the tray and expertly cracked it against the tiled countertop, pouring the
yellow-colorless contents on a small bowl using a single hand.
“Wha – how did you do it with only one hand?” he
asked, stupefied. Whenever he got to opening the shell, he could barely do it
properly with the use of both of his hands, let alone only one.
She laughed then said, “I told you – you’re doing it
too hard. Whenever I see you try, I really feel sorry for the egg shell – ”
“But it’s an inanimate object! I’m only – ”
“Ahh, that’s it. I see.” She said with sudden realization,
“Now I know your problem. Stop thinking that way, okay? Treat the poor thing as
if there’s something alive inside, and that you should crack it open properly
so you can get it out.”
“Wow.” He never thought of it that way before. “Okay,
I’ll try again.”
“For the eighth time.”
He grimaced. “Ha ha. So funny, Miss Hamilton
I-know-it-all.”
“Charming. I’ll clean this up before you wreak havoc
again.”
Feeling warm inside, Tristan watched as she mopped
up their corner in the wide expanse of the kitchen. She threw the egg shells in
to bin, and then cleaned up the yolk spilled on the floor from failed attempts
earlier. He tried again and again to crack and egg properly, and minimizing the
mess as much as he could.
Just as Reeya was almost done, he looked at the
fourth egg resting on his hand. In all seriousness, he could survive without
trying to learn to cook just fine – his finances were more than enough for a
healthy three-time meal a day, but now that he started, he wanted to come out
victorious.
It can be pride, or maybe it was just his stubborn personality,
but he was determined to do this.
Slowly, he brought his hand up and lightly tapped it
on the counter. Knowing his touch was much too light, he did it again, this
time with a little more force.
As he was scrutinizing the zigzagging patterns he
made upon the shell, he quelled the surge of excitement. It was still too early
for a celebration.
Next, he gingerly pried the thing open with both of
his hands, carefully hovered on top of a small, empty bowl.
He supressed the grunt of surprise that was on the
tip of his tongue; he felt the shells give way because of the pressure. With a
snail’s pace, he parted them further and happiness enveloped him like a cocoon
as the contents poured down on the waiting bowl.
“Oh my God.”
“What?” Reeya called out. She went to him
immediately, “Are you okay? What happened?” He saw her lovely features turn
confused, “I don’t see anything bad at all.”
“No, it’s not that, I – ” Tristan couldn’t stop the
chuckle that escaped him before he spoke again, “I did it. Just a second ago.”
Beside himself with glee, she showed her the proof.
Reeya doubled up from laughter. Giggling, she got
the bowl from him, “If I’m not mistaken, this is the first time you did this on
your own. How old are you again?”
“Don’t ask.” His smile reached from ear to ear. He
put his hand on her waist just as she said, “Okay. Now we’re on level two – the
actual cooking. You better not mess this up. This is your lunch I’m holding in
my hands, after all.”
“Not mess up,” he reiterated, swimming on the color
of her eyes. He now noticed they were actually more of the hue of caramel, when
he mistook them for browns. The discovery made her even more alluring to him.
“My lunch. Not mess it up. Got it.”
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