Fifteen

Lucas

Isobelle walked out onto the front porch, looking flustered to hell. My God, she looked good when she’d just been roughly kissed. Her lips were still swollen, her blue eyes searched for me as her golden hair danced around her shoulders in the summer breeze. I took my time to admire how beautiful she was, standing there shielding her eyes from the harsh glare of the sun. I wanted to remember the imagery, cataloging every detail so I could drag out my sketchbook and let my pencil work its magic. She was my muse, a vision of perfection, and I needed to immortalize her onto a canvas, turning her into one of those sempiternal paintings that never alters, never fades.

That’s how I felt about love. I wasn’t a man of many words, but what I lacked in etiquette, I made up for with skills. Whether it be fixing up cars, building a motorcycle from scratch, or painting something that inspired me, I donated my time and effort, leaving a piece of me behind. That was how I breathed life into my