made him look sort of mischievous and rugged. I fantasised about putting my hand through it, pulling him closer and brushing his lips against mine. I felt myself getting flushed. I brought my focus back to the canvas.
His eyes were of almond shape, his eye colour like a pool of the freshest water. My brushstrokes were careful and precise, with a steady hand I disappeared into my art work. It had always been a type of meditation for me. All my focus was on the image in my head, my brushstrokes and the movement of my hand.
I stepped back and took an all over view of what I had done so far. The hair looked pretty good and the eyes were nice, but it wasn’t the real thing. He’s not coming alive from the painting, I told myself. I looked over at the clock, it read 11pm. I hadn’t realized it was so late, so I got myself ready for bed and as a little girl, I fantasised about Peter, the man who wasn’t real.
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