by A J Waines
She reached inside and slid out a thin canvas. ‘Ooh… I say!’ She held it up so I could see. ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ she said, taken aback.
It was a portrait, the oil paint barely dry. Broad, bold strokes had been lashed across the image, but on the face itself were fine intricate details; in the eyelashes, the irises, the creases in the lips. It had a vivid sense of intimacy that took my breath away. Startling in its accuracy, it also captured something wistful and bleak.
‘It’s stunning,’ she said, ‘such an amazing likeness.’
A lump lodged in my throat. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. There was a strange smoky hue painted in wispy brushstrokes around my hair. It made me look like an angel.
‘Who left this for you?’
I fought back tears, struggling to speak, but they got the better of me. Finally, I gave in to them and let them fall.
THE END