Chapter 4: Snow

"That's real stunning, that is," the man remarked. I looked up, startled.
"Sorry?" I struggled to return to reality. A man stood beside me, looking up at the large rectangular canvas before us.
"That," he said, nodding his head to the mounted canvas. "It's a true work of art. Although it's in black and white, it seems to explode in colour and life. The amount of detail in it is impressive, particularly since it is on such a large canvas. It must've taken years to complete."
"Actually," I replied, frowning slightly at the large painting. "It only took six months. I still think I could've added more to it, but it just didn't seem to be able to take anymore."

Now it was the man's turn to be startled. He turned to look at me quickly.
"You mean to say- that you?..." He gasped. I nodded and extended my hand. "This-this is amazing," he continued, grasping my hand and shaking it vigorously. "I can't believe I'd actually have a chance to meet the genius behind all this!"
"I come here most days, while the exhibition is still on," I said, laughing uneasily. Why is it that first meetings were always so awkward?
"Well, this is certainly me lucky day," the man beamed at me, and for a moment, the look in his lit eyes stopped me. But I quickly recovered when he drew out two books and a pen from his worn briefcase.
"I am such a fan of your work you can not imagine," he said, flipping through the pages of his books. "I never liked black and whites much, I always fancied something with more colour...but your works changed my views entirely."
"You're thinking far too highly of my paintings, sir," I laughed, trying to sound nonchalant, but I was trying my hardest to stop myself from blushing with pleasure. I took the pen from him and signed his books with a flourish. My hands were concentrating on balancing the books on my knee, signing the monochrome covers, trying to keep up with the man's excited chatter, and yet my mind was starting to wander far far away.
After he left, I sat down on a bench in the middle of the gallery. Throngs of people drifted in and out, examining the paintings on the walls and gasping and exclaiming. I felt comfortably invisible, just sitting there watching the passing faces, none of them familiar. I saw plenty of couples, walking hand in hand, nestled close, arms around one another. It made my heart ache. I sighed. It's been so long, I thought to myself bitterly. So, so long. I've made it so far. I've achieved so much. Yet there was just that one part of me that refused to let go of the past. How on Earth could I have fallen so helplessly in love with that one person that could never be mine? The question remained unanswered after all these years.
I put my head in my hands and closed my eyes, blocking out the bright overhanging lights of the gallery. In the darkness behind my eyelids, I slowly recalled the tender, yet painful images of my past. The dark hair. The soft, pouty lips. The pale skin. And those eyes- those brilliant eyes that sparkled oak in the sun and rippled ebony in the shade. It was the look in that man's eyes that brought back all these memories. That look of joy and laughter that brought his entire face to life. I remember spending sleepless nights just recalling the laughter I was so used to, imagining the sly grin, the curve of those lips when they broke into a soft, secretive smile. Always so mysterious, so enigmatic, the one code I could never decipher.
I should've released all these feelings long ago. I should've thrown them away with the rest of my past, bury them beneath the sands of time. Yet, over and over again, those pictures would return to me. Everything I did seem to revert to the past- when I was drinking coffee, driving back to an empty home at night, dipping my paintbrush into my black, grey and white palette.
It was because of this, because of all this love I allowed myself to shower upon a solid wall. It was because of this that I never looked at anyone else. It was in my head that as long as I'd never have my feelings returned, I'd never love anyone else again. Many a time I was overcome by the manic urge to kick myself hard. For torturing myself this way, unable to let go and forget, holding on to a past that should've long been forgotten. But it was hard attempting to break the habit, and though here I am, miles away from any familiar faces, the feelings within me seethed and bubbled, instead of cooling and stilling.
Ever since I'd left almost five years ago, I'd never wanted to return. Of course, I nver forgot to take the annual holiday back to my family, but that was simply out of the sake of regularity. I avoided certain parts of town where I know the memories would hurt me most. Which is rather ridiculous as I have not heard from any of my past acquaintances ever since I first left. It wasn't particularly hard not to, really. I did the simplest thing I could think of, the only thing I was ever good at. Fading from people's memories. Melted, evaporated, poof. Gone without a trace. Perhaps a few telltale here and there to serve as remembrance, only looked at by those who felt the way I did. But 'those' were few and very far between.

A loud cry of a child broke me out of my reverie. I looked up, returning to the harsh lights and decorated walls. A little boy lay on the floor, screaming blue murder. His mother- a small, flustered woman with red cheeks, hastily bundled him up and took him away. I sat still, unmoved. It was almost seven, yet the crowds kept coming in. Apparently I was more popular than I thought I was. It's that or these people were simply finding an excuse to escape the cold. Neither was I, actually. I wasn't at all keen to face the bitter cold of the night yet. I decided to people-watch for another half-hour, maybe walk around the gallery to look at the other exhibitions, before I went out and shopped for dinner. During this crazed holiday season, every other shop would be up till almost midnight, so I'd have no trouble finding a cozy delicatessen open somewhere round the corner. I remember how I used to be as hyped up as everyone else this time of the year, but now I can't even bother to summon up enough energy to care. It didn't matter the time of the year- it was always winter to me. Cold, numb, and bitterly cold. Like the brain-freezing slushies of summer and the first frosts of December. I remembered how I'd been so excited to see the first snowfall when I'd first came here. I'd ran out, struggling into a thin jacket that did little to protect me from the cold. All I wanted to do was make a snowman and roll in the cool white powder, but yet again memories stopped me dead in my tracks. Remembering how much we used to go on about snow...the white snow of our imaginations. It made the very white in my hands seem like live, black coals. Compared to the drought of loneliness, snowmen seemed utterly irrelevent.

Thundering of feet. Stamping and squeaking across the polished floors of the gallery. The echoes made it hard to tell which direction it was coming from. I never understood how parents could allow their kids to chase one another-or themselves, for that matter- in public areas. It's a good thing there aren't any pots or statues around, I thought. Else somebody would have pretty empty stockings this Christmas. Though it isn't quite impossible for a kid to backflip into one of the canvesses- children do have this tendency to defy gravity when the need arises. I tried to imagine the look on the poor parent's face when a warm weight fell upon me from behind, a pair of arms wrapped around my waist. The sound of panting, followed by a soft chuckle that brought all my memories back in a sweeping flood. The arms tightened around me as that sweet voice I thought I'd never hear again tickled in my ear.
"Found you".

Perhaps spring was coming sooner than I'd expected.