A Memory Rewritten

Palimpsest

/ˈpaləm(p)ˌsest/

a manuscript or piece of writing material on which the original writing has been effaced to make room for later writing but of which traces remain.

The subway car rumbled along the tracks, walls rattling with the familiar rhythm of a thousand journeys. Ethan sat in his customary corner seat, his sketchbook balanced on his knees, a #2 pencil moving deftly across the page. His fingers were stained with the remnants of last evening’s oil painting, and his eyes, a deep, thoughtful blue, focused intently on the emerging lines and shadows.

As he sketched the woman sitting across from him, his mind wandered back to their chance encounter on the street a few days ago. He had bumped into her, and his satchel had slipped from his grasp. She had picked it up, apologizing with a warm smile. The memory was jumbled, but her scent lingered in his mind. The pencil faltered for a moment, and he felt a flutter in his chest as he recalled the way her soft locks had brushed against his arm.

In his mid-20’s, Ethan was a quiet and even-tempered man. His dark hair, slightly disheveled, fell across his forehead, and he occasionally pushed it back with a gesture that was both absent-minded and, according to some, endearing. In contrast to his work attire of muted polos and slacks, today he wore a simple, faded gray t-shirt and jeans for his Saturday morning library trip. A worn leather satchel lay at his feet, containing another sketchbook, color pencils, and a small, well-loved notebook where he jotted down musical ideas.

The pencil danced deftly across the deckled page, countering the sway of the subway car as he captured the essence of his affection. He had a knack for seeing beauty in the city, and today, his subject was the woman sitting across from him, lost in her book. Before their encounter on the street, he had never noticed her on the subway, but now he noticed her every day.

The lovely creature was—as always—engrossed in a book, a mass of curly, brown hair framing her face in wild, elegant defiance, somehow chaotic and perfectly in place at the same time. Her dark eyes were fixed on the pages, lashes casting soft shadows on her cheeks. Ethan had yet to determine their exact color—even after their recent chance encounter—but he was captivated by the way they sparkled when she read.

He told himself it was purely from an artist’s perspective that he observed the delightful way her breasts lifted with a soft, rhythmic bounce in time with the train’s motion. She was braless today, and her casual outfit—a simple blouse and jeans—did little to conceal the natural sway of her body. Whether stirred by something on the page or by the gentle friction of fabric against skin, her nipples rose visibly beneath the thin material, casting subtle, alluring shadows as she turned the page.

As he sketched, the fragmented memory of their encounter lingered in his mind, which was so odd, given his attention to detail. He recalled the feel of her hands brushing against his as she handed him his satchel, the sound of her apologetic laughter, and the way her eyes had crinkled at the corners. And that luxurious hair. A man could get lost in that hair.

Her travel on a Sunday morning was unusual, which made her appearance that much more enjoyable. Ethan had given her a nickname from the art world, a name that captured the way she brought art and life together in his presence—La Bella.

The car slowed with a squeak. In the bustle of passengers entering and exiting, Ethan found himself torn between the desire to continue his drawing and the urge to simply watch his favorite muse performing one of her favorite activities. He decided to do both, his pencil moving across the page with a life of its own, capturing her adorable dimples, the way her hair fell, the subtle lift of her eyebrows as she read.

And, of course, her alluring décolletage.

La Bella glanced up suddenly, her eyes meeting Ethan’s for a brief moment. He felt an embarrassing flush creep up his neck. She smiled, a soft, friendly smile that sent a tingle through him, and returned her attention to her book, leaving Ethan to wonder whether she was aware of his growing infatuation. He had hoped on one of her trips she would wonder about his sketching and hazard a look, but alas, no.

Damn! What color are her eyes?

When the train approached his stop, Ethan gathered his things, his sketchbook returned safely in his satchel. He glanced at La Bella one last time, then stepped off the train, his mind turning to the day’s tasks.

This was going to be the last ordinary day of his life.