The continuous and fluid strokes almost make a “whoosh” sound every time her arm flies over the canvas, the paintbrush leaving colourful strokes in its wake on the white cloth. It has been a long time since she felt the curves of a brush between her fingers and the drying, crumbling paint on her arms. The aroma of the paint is hanging around her like a cloud of French perfume, enveloping her body in its pungent smell.
Her hand glides over the canvas without a single break in movement, back and forth, spreading the golden-yellow paint, then the pastel green, then the sky blue. Her gaze is met with a sea of colours in front of her, but in her mind’s eye she sees a beautiful image, one that is desperate to be realized on the canvas in front of her. Her strokes gain speed, as if she is trying to win a race, as if the grains of sand in her invisible hourglass are becoming less and less with each passing second.
A dab of red here, a blot of blue there and an arch of purple overhead. With a last, long and laboured breath she glides the paintbrush one last time over the canvas in front of her, completing the vision created in her mind. As if she was a robot whose code reached its end, she lowers her arms and slowly steps back, taking in the glory of the painting before her.
An angel with wings unfurled gazes back at her, wrapped in a mosaic of colours, bringing it to life. A majestic being with a golden halo gracefully floating above its head and plump, white wings extends its arm, beckoning her inside.
Esperas steps forward, putting her hand into the angel’s gentle, cool palm and just as soon, she disappears. The only sound to be heard is the wooden paintbrush bouncing on the floor.
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