The Art of Life

“Are you a fan of Renoir?” I heard a voice ask. “He’s my favorite.”

I turned around to the stunning girl standing behind me. “I am but I prefer the surrealistic artists like Alex Grey or Dominic Ryan. I like art that makes you think.”

She looked impressed. “So you must know art?”

I smiled. “Not really but I love it. I’m an English major actually.”

“A writer? That’s awesome. I’m actually an art major. My name’s Daylee.”

Her eyes were what drew me in. I was wrapped into their darkness. “I’m Jaye.”

“You have a beautiful smile, Jaye,” she said. “Would you like to get a cup of coffee with me? The gallery has a great café.”

“I have about an hour before my class. I’d love to.” There was something magical about Daylee. It was like I had always known her.

Her beauty and fluid sexuality took my breath away and as we walked downstairs, I stole glances at her. Her hair fell over the stark white tank top as raven strands of silk and I could see the curves she tried to hide underneath baggy carpenter jeans. We spent the entire afternoon at the café, neglecting the remainder of our classes. Every second was worth it. We debated art, music, and literature. We laughed at the same things and had similar taste in cinema. It was my coming home.

And thirty years later, it still is.

We made it a point once a month to go to our art museum. We saw a lot of changes in those three decades there- and in each other- but the magic and intensity remained. We went last weekend for the final time. I spread her ashes on the grounds of our second home and then went to the café for a cup of coffee. When I closed my eyes, I could almost hear her. “Are you a fan of Renoir?”