So he had a business proposition for me?

Was he crazy?

I was no business woman, I was an artist and a dreamer.

What did he know about dreaming, what did I know about business?

All I knew at that time was that my heart was racing as I melted into his arms.

His grip was strong, passionate even.

Is this how this man did business? I would call that some kind of funny business if anyone asked me.

I drank in my breath, trying to lodge his scent in my brain, as he held me.

It seemed like the embrace lasted hours but it had only lasted a few minutes when he let go of my waist. He bent to pick up my red bowl, wrapping it in a cloth so as to not stain anything.

“Do you want to take your paintings home?” He pointed to the crumpled and discarded canvas strewn throughout the black stone.

“No, I don’t need them. They are memories of my failure.” I started walking home.

“You may be too hard on yourself. I thought they were good.” He rushed to catch up to me.

I glared at him with contempt that I felt, not for him, but for myself.

“In art good is not good enough. When a person paints, or sketches, perfection is the only means to achieve the end.”

“That is why I want you to work with me.”

There he goes again. Talking about business, when my heart is still desperately trying to slow down. I roll my eyes and stifle a yawn.

“Why would you want an artist that can not even paint a white polka dot on the tip of a black wing?”

“Because when I looked at your painting of the Wall Creeper, I felt as if I could feel the wind lifting my wings into flight .”

I stopped dead in my tracks. “Really?” I looked up at his smoky grey eyes.

He nodded his head. His gaze was sincere.

“Wow, that is the nicest thing  any one has ever said to me.”

“It is the truth. You have a gift. I have seen many painters, none that remotely touch your talent.”

I smiled the rest of the way home.