The painter stood looking at the empty canvas.
He would never be able to paint who she really was.
Her bones, protruding; her dark hair tinged with red tones. She would sit for hours, waiting for him to raise his brush to the canvas but he never did.
She was the one thing in his world which could never be put into words, let alone made a copy of on a canvas.
Story credit: Gerhard Freidl for Popp and Kretschmer FW 13 14.