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Description
Art had always been a fascination of mine. Strolling through galleries was a way to remember all the years that had passed. Sometimes bringing up the painful fact of immortality so strong I would have to leave immediately, sometimes tears pooling in my eyes. However I had learned to focus on studying the ebbs and flow of the creative minds.

The more time that passed, the more I noticed the patterns of things. The more the idea of original ideas made me laugh. Nothing was truly original. Ideas, styles, even the looks of people were all bound to repeat themselves eventually.

As I rounded the corner my eyes slowly rose up to meet a familiar face. Slowly, with no real intention of my own, I drew nearer. I felt my jaw slacken. There was a young man sitting on the bench in front of the sizable painting, Sketching and learning from the masters as many artists did. He laughed, looking at me and back to the painting.

“Miss,” he said. “Miss she looks just like you.”

I closed my mouth, pursing my lips together and giving a curt nod. “Yes, I suppose she does.”

A few other gallery patrons looked up, a few surprised chuckles echoed around the room. None of them knew it was really me. I sat down on the bench beside the man. He scrambled to move his things out of the way.

“Would you mind terribly if I drew you too?”

I shook my head, his shoulders rose quickly in excitement and he scrambled to find something in his bag. My eyes swam over the painting. It was vibrant. The red cloth of my dress seemed as if I could reach out and pull it from the canvas, donning it again for another night with him. My cinnamon eyes had a look of passion in them, one that he had known all too well. My hair was a wild swirl around my pale complexion, a blush across my cheeks I knew was never there in real life. He had made me come alive, more alive than I had been in centuries.

Abruptly I pulled my phone out and rose to my feet. The poor man beside me jumped at my sudden movement after being still for so long. I stood back and snapped a picture before looking over and noticing a grin on his face.

“Do you want me to take one of you beside it?”

I noticed for the first time how handsome he was; with sandy blonde hair and green eyes. I nodded and handed him my phone. I sat on the bench in front of my portrait and gave him the same look I knew was captured behind me. He swallowed hard and took the picture, handing me back my phone and gathering up his things.

“I hate to impose, but if you’re not doing anything-”

“Well I want to finish walking through the gallery,” I interrupted. He deflated before I continued, “But there is a lovely café about a block over.”

He beamed, straightened right back up, and began to rattle on about other pieces in the gallery; apparently he had been several times since it had opened a few weeks prior. I admired his enthusiasm; maybe someday I would come across another image of myself hanging upon a gallery wall. An equally terrible, yet beautiful reminder of the years I’ve trodden this earth.

Description
Art had always been a fascination of mine. Strolling through galleries was a way to remember all the years that had passed. Sometimes bringing up the painful fact of immortality so strong I would have to leave immediately, sometimes tears pooling in my eyes. However I had learned to focus on studying the ebbs and flow of the creative minds.

The more time that passed, the more I noticed the patterns of things. The more the idea of original ideas made me laugh. Nothing was truly original. Ideas, styles, even the looks of people were all bound to repeat themselves eventually.

As I rounded the corner my eyes slowly rose up to meet a familiar face. Slowly, with no real intention of my own, I drew nearer. I felt my jaw slacken. There was a young man sitting on the bench in front of the sizable painting, Sketching and learning from the masters as many artists did. He laughed, looking at me and back to the painting.

“Miss,” he said. “Miss she looks just like you.”

I closed my mouth, pursing my lips together and giving a curt nod. “Yes, I suppose she does.”

A few other gallery patrons looked up, a few surprised chuckles echoed around the room. None of them knew it was really me. I sat down on the bench beside the man. He scrambled to move his things out of the way.

“Would you mind terribly if I drew you too?”

I shook my head, his shoulders rose quickly in excitement and he scrambled to find something in his bag. My eyes swam over the painting. It was vibrant. The red cloth of my dress seemed as if I could reach out and pull it from the canvas, donning it again for another night with him. My cinnamon eyes had a look of passion in them, one that he had known all too well. My hair was a wild swirl around my pale complexion, a blush across my cheeks I knew was never there in real life. He had made me come alive, more alive than I had been in centuries.

Abruptly I pulled my phone out and rose to my feet. The poor man beside me jumped at my sudden movement after being still for so long. I stood back and snapped a picture before looking over and noticing a grin on his face.

“Do you want me to take one of you beside it?”

I noticed for the first time how handsome he was; with sandy blonde hair and green eyes. I nodded and handed him my phone. I sat on the bench in front of my portrait and gave him the same look I knew was captured behind me. He swallowed hard and took the picture, handing me back my phone and gathering up his things.

“I hate to impose, but if you’re not doing anything-”

“Well I want to finish walking through the gallery,” I interrupted. He deflated before I continued, “But there is a lovely café about a block over.”

He beamed, straightened right back up, and began to rattle on about other pieces in the gallery; apparently he had been several times since it had opened a few weeks prior. I admired his enthusiasm; maybe someday I would come across another image of myself hanging upon a gallery wall. An equally terrible, yet beautiful reminder of the years I’ve trodden this earth.