Dusk had long fallen, creating darkness in places where the suns light reigned during the day. The bakery had long closed downstairs, selling its last crusty roll at a quarter to six. Remaining bread items had been packed up into bags and dropped to charity kitchens when the owner was on his way home, it was a little peace of good-will that also discouraged mice to take up residence in the store rooms of his business. Above the shop front was a singular window with dark drapes that were nearly always pulled open, tied to the side of the frame with bits of fabric ribbon. The pane of glass glows softly, not with the flicker of a candle light (as some romantics may see this picture) but with the globe of a lamp light that sits on the edge of a desk.

Bathed in such light, is a neat pile of glossy prints; photographs of various places of Sanfield and the people that reside (or visit) it. There's a picture of a little girl, about six years of age, with dirty blonde hair, gap-toothed and smiling. Her eyes are a simple light brown and her skin is mildly chapped, pink, and wind burnt. Its her photograph that sits atop of all the others, with the ball of light reflecting off the side of her face as she sits there, forever locked in that single frame. Beside it is a well used keyboard, attached to the updated PC system that makes home on the desk. Stars shoot through the universe on the monitor; an animated screen saver that prevents the burning of images into the fragile LCD screen. Above the shelf is a printer and in its tray sits several printed pictures on standard A4 paper, the ink well dried over the time in which they have lain there untouched.

Rachel reaches for the first one, a landscape of a greens and brown, flora that's from another place that holds buckets of annual rain and plenty of farming fields. She eases down into a chair as she studies it, admiring the details of the spot of colour off center where three villagers of darker skin are crouched and at work with hands and tools that would seem primitive to anyone but farming hands. Most of all she admires her mothers capability, her talent, in capturing these moments of life and the time she takes out of a busy schedule to send these across in file format.

In her other hand, that is speckled with spots of dried paint, Rachel cradles a cup of steaming liquid. The chocolate is a comforting scent and an even more comforting to taste. She sips from it with thoughtful and distracting sips. Its not as good as her grandmothers hot chocolate but it will do for now, until she can be bothered getting up to get herself some dinner. Besides nothing tastes as good as something one doesn't have to cook for themselves. Sometimes its all just too much a bother when there was one person to cook for, and here, now, while she's living alone so much food goes to waste; unlike when she lived in the dorms at the University.

Behind her coppery curls, not but a few feet away from where she was at the computer desk, rested a canvas on an easel. The base colours had been long applied, smooth strokes of oil paints created background essentials, contrasts to what was becoming the center piece. A girls face, with wildly messy and light coloured hair. It wasn't finished, not by a long shot, but the foundations were set, creating a firm layer of necessity to what would become a piece of art fit for the walls of a local gallery, or perhaps something for a private collection. But there wasn't a need to rush. This was home for a local student of the University of Sanfield, and she could take her time with her cup of hot chocolate and muse over the possibilities of a next piece while the other sat drying nearby.

A soft ping will sound on Rachels computer behind the shooting stars screensaver signalling that she has an email.

Almost as if expecting it, Rachel sets the printed picture aside, resting it back into the printers tray where it wouldn't be harmed by the accidental drop of coffee at some ungodly hour of the night when Rachel's wits weren't about her and she was being sloppy from tiredness. She takes a long gulp of hot chocolate before setting the mug down on the desk, leaving it on a piece of paper that has several stained rings from the drinks before it. Tapping her mouse, she watched the screen expectantly and was blinded by the brightness of it when it finally loaded.

Squinting against the white glow, she navigated her way through the browser and to her inbox icon. Clicking on it, she expected to see a reply from an email she sent out to her mother earlier, that thanked her for the photograph's...

The message is not from her mother, but from Edward Perkins, the curator at the Nielsen Gallery. Edward is a friendly older man who took a liking to Rachel in her freshman year at the university. Whenever possible he tries to help her get her work viewed. The email reads:

Rachel,

I want to give you a heads up that i have an exhibit by Joan Snyder coming in next week and will be showcasing some local artists as well. I would love to host some of your pieces for the event if you are willing.

I hope your settling into your new place. Just drop by whenever and we can discuss the details.

--Ed  

--Last edited by Radiationjunkie on 2008-12-18 09:23:53 --

Curious that its not from her mother she was most surprised to hear from Edward. Not that they didn't speak often but because it was getting late in the night and he had been kind enough to think about her.

She tucked her hair behind an ear, and glanced down to the keyboard. A response appeared on a reply email;

Dearest Edward,

I am most pleased to hear from you and take great delight with your offer. If you are free this Friday afternoon, I'm happy to catch up to discuss the options with you. Let me know what time suits your busy schedule best.

Hoping all is well with you and yours,

Rachel.

Hitting send, she sat back and sucked her lower lip thoughtfully. Her mind was already running over the possibilities of her current works and whether or not she would have her work-in-progress finished by next week.

Apparently Ed is in his office even at this odd hour. Its not too suprising given the sometimes odd schedules artists keep and the fact that he operates the gallery mostly by himself. His reply dings into Rachels inbox within four minutes.

Rachel,

Pop over around one and i will have lunch waiting. Im headed home now or Louise will kill me, ill see you in a few days.

Take care,
-Ed

Friday at 1pm. She could do that. Lunch sounded even better. She'd have to bring something though. Maybe a nice bottle of wine. Most artists, the older ones, liked wine. It sort of came with the territory really. Just like drugs went with rock n roll.

Picking up the mug she got up and went over to the kitchenette to rinse and wash it out, turning it upside down in the dish-rack to dry overnight. A quick trip to the bathroom and a change of clothes into her nightwear; a simple pair of bottoms and a camisole, had her shutting down the computer and switching off the lamplight. Navigating through the opened loft in darkness only lit by what little moon and street light came through her window, she crawled onto her bed and in beneath the sheets.

It would be an hour before she slept, plagued by her gallery options and daydreams.