Yet I ignored her and paid more attention to the walls, “You’re an artist?” I asked as I looked at a sketch of a bee, so perfect it could’ve flown off the page and stung me.
“Yeah, I’m kind of an art major, but I take the classes at home over the computer.”
“Kind of??” I questioned, now looking at a drawing of an elderly man drinking coffee, “Do you see these?”
Charlotte merely shrugged: the modest artist.
“But I don’t get it. You have all of this ahead of you and yet you…you know…”
This actually made her chuckle, “Want to jump off a building?”
“Pretty much,” I continued looking at thie entire gallery, only for my eyes to stop on one large piece, “That’s not me, is it?”
She studied the large sketch, “Does it not look like you? You always do that you know, go outside every night and just stare at nothing. And you do it long enough that I managed to get a good sketch out of it.”
And it was. I had my slight smile, my freckles, my blonde hair flying slightly in the wind.
But I had to focus, “So your father?”